There's No Place Like
by The Real Muse
Summary: In the last episode of the series, Starsky is shot and almost killed. Injuries that severe usually preclude a police officer ever rejoining his partner on the streets. But sometimes there are ways around the rules. Rewrite on my home website
1. Default Chapter

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE..  
  
By: CindyR  
  
"I don it believe it! That's Tommy LaBeck over there!" Sgt. Ken Hutchinson dumped the rest of his coffee out the car window and shoved the big car into gear, slamming his partner - jelly donut and all - back against the seat.  
  
"LaBeck?" The other man wiped strawberry jam from his chin with a paper napkin, while struggling to right himself. The napkin and donut followed the coffee cup out the window. "Vice has been looking for him for the last six months."  
  
"Yeah, and we got him." Hutch pulled the car around into a tight U-turn, bringing it to a halt in front of a dingy looking bar with the unlikely appellation of The Cosmic Equation. "I got the front."  
  
"I'll get the back." He disappeared around the corner, leaving Hutch to enter the front door alone.  
  
Lousy hole in the wall. Hutch thought to himself, peering around the dim interior. Kind of place even the roaches don't visit.  
  
Several patrons lounged around the long wooden bar, sipping beer and shooting him suspicious glances. Being the only white in the place did tend to make one a bit conspicuous, he thought wryly. He felt a bit like a cue ball. Yeah, a cue ball Right behind the eight ball. As usual.  
  
Faint shadows danced in the murky dimness, giving the patrons within a wraith-like aspect. The dark suited these creatures of the night, concealed that which was not fitting - rarely even spoken of - in the purer light of day. With the dawn these ones would be gone, vanished like the specters they so resembled.  
  
Slowly, Hutch made his way into the smoke-filled interior, searching for one face among the many. A largish man with magnificent full beard and a sullen expression stuck a leg out into the aisle, blocking Hutch's progress. Defiance smoldered in the muddy eyes, a rejection of the authority inherent in the straight, confident figure.  
  
The moment held then faded as the Negro changed his mind. Experienced black eyes summed the blond up instantly - hard, cold, no one to mess with unless he wanted more trouble than it was worth. Reluctantly, the bearded man withdrew his leg, rejecting the challenge shining in the crystal blue eyes.  
  
"Another time, pig," he muttered.  
  
Hutch dismissed him as soon as the man had backed down. Another time. Yeah, I believe that.  
  
A flash of movement from the rear of the bar caught Hutch's attention. He moved swiftly across the room, only slightly hampered by the unwashed bodies which blocked his path. He arrived barely in time to see a smallish weasel of a man slipping out the back door.  
  
"Hold it, Pol-" Hutch halted mid-word as a large, masculine hand reached through the now opened door, snagging LaBeck by the shirt collar and lifting him clear off the floor.  
  
"Now, now, little man." A smug smile followed the hand into the room. "You're not going anywhere, are you?" A stream of invective was the only response until the large hand - attached to a very large cop - gave him a rough shake. "That's enough of that, little man. You're under arrest,"  
  
Detective Sergeant Sean O'Brian held the prisoner with one hand while cuffing him with the other, all the while reciting the Miranda in an amiable baritone. Hutch watched quietly, resisting the almost uncontrollable urge to look around for Starsky.  
  
Starsky's in the hospital, he reminded himself for the hundredth time that day. Reminded himself unnecessarily - the events of those few weeks ago were burned indelibly into the fabric of his mind, a waking/sleeping nightmare that followed him wherever he went. Starsky was alive, but mending slowly - very slowly. The wounds 'Massive damage, ' had brought the man to the point of death... and beyond.  
  
He'd survived - barely - and was now on the mend, but it would be a long time before Starsky had regained enough of his health to work with Hutch again... if indeed he ever did. The doctors were frankly skeptical on that point.  
  
In the meantime, Dobey, in a rare burst of diplomacy, had teamed Hutchinson "temporarily" with Sgt. O' Brian, a large, towheaded Irishman as different from David Starsky as night was from day. Where Starsky was hot-headed, O' Brian was placid. Where Starsky was instinctive, O'Brian was reasoned. Where Starsky would rush in, O'Brian would plan carefully down to the last detail. No comparisons one to the other; no reminders.  
  
Hutch found himself liking the amiable man despite an initial resentment on Starsky's behalf, and even Starsky, in one of his now frequent moments of lucidity, had pronounced O'Brian a suitable "stand-in" capable of watching his partner's back "for a little while." High praise indeed for Starsky.  
  
Hutch took one of LaBeck's cuffed arms, helping O'Brian drag the little man back to the Ford. "Vice'll be glad to see this one," the Irishman commented. "He's -been at the top of their list for awhile."  
  
Hutch grunted assent but could force no more enthusiasm than that. Yeah, right, they caught Tommy LaBeck. Big deal.  
  
He was immediately sorry for the reaction. LaBeck sold dope in the local high schools. Taking him out of circulation was a big deal, and O'Brian had every right to be proud of the collar. No sense ruining his sense of accomplishment just because Hutch was in a bitchy mood.  
  
"Vice will be very glad to get hold of this one," he agreed, dredging up a smile. He nodded over his shoulder at the loudly cursing man cuffed to an armrest in the back, "Got quite a mouth on him, doesn't he?"  
  
O' Brian turned suddenly in his seat, "Quiet!" he bellowed startling both LaBeck and Hutch into silence. "Sorry. He was getting on my nerves. What did you say?"  
  
"Uh... only that Vice is going to be glad to get him off the street. " Hutch tried again to lighten his tone but failed miserably when he caught himself wishing for the umpteenth time that it was a curly-haired imp sitting in that seat grinning at him rather than this big Irishman. He smothered that thought as well. Sean was a good man and a fine cop. It wasn't his fault he wasn't Dave Starsky.  
  
O'Brian caught the single glance cast his way and accurately deduced the meaning behind it. He might be an easy-going man, but was neither insensitive nor stupid, and was well aware of what his "partner" was going through of late. Dobey had been quite open with him on the subject.  
  
"Hutchinson is not going to accept you as a partner," he'd admitted one day. "But he needs someone level-headed to watch out for him. With Starsky out of it..."  
  
"Permanently?" The question was reasonable and polite, but still ignited a flash of anger of Dobey's chocolate brown eyes. So the stories were true -- Dobey did have a soft spot in that steel clad heart of his for this pair of hotshots.  
  
"We don't know if it's permanent or not, O'Brian," the police captain answered stubbornly, "and we won't know for some time. Until then, Hutchinson is not going to be at his best, and I want someone I can trust keeping an eye on him."  
  
"You're sure..." Sean stumbled over another reasonable question. "You're sure he's going to be able to... uh, function on the streets?" Is he going to get me killed?  
  
Dobey's eyes gleamed stonily in the office light. "He'll do his job, O' Brian, don't you worry about that. You just make sure you do yours  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
And so an unlikely pseudo-partnership was born, with both men learning to work together bit by bit. O'Brian was constantly reminded, however, not by word nor deed but only by instinct, that he was not Detective Hutchinson's partner, was there temporarily and by sufferance only until Detective Starsky returned.  
  
O' Brian sighed. The scuttlebutt had it that Starsky would not be returning to the force; would be pensioned out on a medical discharge. Privately, O'Brian believed that Ken would be going with him. As close as those two were, as dependent as they had become on each other's support, there was as little chance of Hutch staying with the department without Starsky as there was of Starsky coming back at all.  
  
O'Brian would miss the man, but understood this would be for the best. After all, it was about time O'Brian hooked up with a permanent partner of his own. The streets could be very lonely without one - as evidenced by one Detective Sergeant Kenneth C. Hutchinson. Very lonely indeed, 


	2. Chapter 2

"Starsk? Hey, Starsk, you awake?"  
  
Hutch crossed quietly to peer down at the pale, thin face on the pillow. It always cost him a pang these days to catch Starsky asleep like this. Asleep, the hardened street cop vanished, allowing the new vulnerability of the wounded man to shine through.  
  
Hutch stood regarding his friend for a long time, relishing the sight of the rise and fall of his chest, savoring the signs of a life he'd thought violently extinguished. Starsky looked so peaceful lying there amid the blankets, safe - alive! God, it felt so good just to know Starsky was going to live!  
  
It had been two weeks now since Starsky had been shot down in the police parking lot, but the terrible injuries he'd suffered in the incident had left him healing slowly and still in considerable pain. Consequently, the doctors kept him lightly drugged nearly all the time, a regular series of pain-killers, sedatives, antibiotics and more, administered over the course of the day - every day.  
  
Hutch looked around for a chair, prepared to await his partner's return to awareness, but the long lashes fluttered once and opened. Blue eyes peered blankly, unfocused. "Hmmph?" he muttered.  
  
Hardly scintillating conversation, but with all the drugs being pumped through his system, Starsky was fortunate to be able to manage that much most of the time. Of course. Hutch wasn't at this particular bedside to be amused, any way.  
  
"Hey, buddy," he said, giving his friend's shoulder a reassuring pat. "How're you feeling?"  
  
He could tell that the painkillers at least were beginning to wear off. Still, the blue eyes met his own directly enough and the lips curved upward into a thin smile. "M'kay." The voice was a hoarse croak, damaged lungs straining to draw breath for speech as well as life. God, Starsk, Hutch thought sadly. What they did to you. His mind rejected the thought as too painful to contemplate even now. He did have to think about it soon, however - it was time to consider options, both his own and Starsky's. But not now. He was too tired and Starsky was going to need him to be strong for a while - a long while. The doctors had made it clear that there was going to be long months of rest and therapy if he ever hoped to regain even a measure of the health he'd once enjoyed. It would probably not be enough to qualify him with the medical review board; they'd been honest enough about that; he might never be a street cop again. And a Starsky chained behind a desk would be a very miserable Starsky indeed.  
  
Dobey was already attempting to prepare Hutch for that eventuality by teaming him with Sean O' Brian so soon after the shooting. It was a good choice. Hutch had to admit. O'Brian was a good cop, possessing a placid serenity about life that Hutch was beginning to envy more and more.  
  
Yeah, O'Brian was a good cop - even on his way to being a good friend - but the 'Dynamic Duet* required one David M. Starsky in the equation. Without him, there was no sparkle, no triumph, no balance. No team. "Hey, Hutch?"  
  
Hutchinson focused on the pale face, aware that he had let his thoughts drift. So tired.. "Yeah, buddy. Right here." He pasted on a smile, not fooling his friend one bit.  
  
"You look awful." Starsky *s lips twitched again. "How're you feelin'?"  
  
Hutch sank down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Just a little tired." He glanced down into concerned eyes, then reached out to gently enfold his friend's hand in his own, feeling a need for some form of physical contact. He's alive... "It's the case I'm working on." The half- lie wouldn't fool Starsky, but Starsky wouldn't push the matter either. Not yet anyway.  
  
"Yeah? What is it?"  
  
"Someone's killing wino's on the strip again."  
  
The dark head came up at that, eyes narrowed into slits. "Winos? Like that case we worked on 'couple years back? You're... not going undercover, are you?" he asked anxiously.  
  
Hutch squeezed the hand he still gripped; the weak return squeeze provided more comfort than anything else could ever have done. Alive..  
  
"No, partner, it won't be me going undercover. You'n me, we're too well- known in that area for me to pull it off. We borrowed Carter from Vice for the undercover work. We brought 'em Tommy LaBeck last night and they're returning the favor."  
  
Starsky snorted and dropped his head back to the heavily fluffed pillow. "LaBeck? That turkey? Where 'd you get him?"  
  
"We cornered him in some dive called, believe it or not. The Cosmic Equation." "Over on McGee Street?"  
  
"That's the one. We just waltzed in and picked him up." Hutch laughed at the memory of LaBeck dangling from O 'Brian's grip. "Literally."  
  
"Yeah? Good." Starsky relaxed fractionally. "Can't have you workin' under without proper back-up. Without me." He shifted slightly in the hospital bed and grimaced as a spasm of pain shot through him.  
  
Hutch bent forward anxiously. "Starsk? Hang on, buddy, I'll get the nurse + "  
  
He made to disengage his hand from the weak grip, but the fingers tightened around his own, giving him pause.  
  
"M 'okay, I said."  
  
"No, you're not, you idiot," Hutch said affectionately. "I can tell you're hurting. Pretty bad, too, isn't it? Let me get some help."  
  
But Starsky shook his head, his hold tenacious. "No, Hutch, I... not yet, 'kay? I've been drugged up so long... hate it. Just... a little while longer, okay? Please?"  
  
The pleading voice would have been hard to resist even had Hutch had any resistance left. He settled back down on the bed, tightening his grip on Starsky's hand. "All right, but just a while, then I'm getting a nurse, understand?"  
  
Starsky nodded. Even a few minutes of relatively clear thought were precious of late. "Tell me about this new case," he begged.  
  
Hutch chatted on several minutes, describing the pertinent facts of his newest assignment. Maybe it would give Starsky something to think about for a while besides the four hospital walls and drugged lethargy that filled his time here.  
  
"... so Sean and I requested Carter to do a bit of snooping for us; see what he turns up."  
  
"Sean... your new partner." The words were sad, a little wistful, and Hutch felt the now familiar pain flare up inside him. Very little chance of him returning to the force... very little chance.... The echoed litany replayed itself with monotonous regularity until Hutch brutally extinguished it.  
  
"O'Brian's a good cop, Starsk." The blond waited until his friend hesitantly met his eyes. "But he's not my partner. You are." Starsky tried to avert his face; Hutch took a handful of curly dark hair, forcing the man's face back up. "Do you understand me?"  
  
Starsky met the crystalline gaze for several seconds before closing his eyes. Hutch's hand released his hair, then rested gently against the soft curls. "Hey, Starsk? Easy... easy. I'll get the nurse."  
  
"Wait!" The pain-filled eyes flew open again, meeting his partner's concerned look squarely. "Hutch, I... I was talkin' to the doctors today." The blond stiffened, bracing himself. "He said chances are I'll never qualify for the streets again. "  
  
Hutch's expression froze over, his lips a thin line. "'Chances are' doesn't mean a lot, buddy." "  
  
Hutch, we... have to face facts, man. I.. don't think--. I'll be able to come back to the department." He sighed dispiritedly- "I can't face driving a desk the rest of my life and--." He gasped on a deep, wrenching pain that was as much emotional as physical, "...and you need someone who isn't gonna let you down out there." He turned away as a tear slipped down his cheek and then another, the hand still encased in Hutch's beginning to tremble.  
  
Hutch stared, dismayed. He'd known - how could he not know? - the thin emotional line Starsky had been walking since the shooting- But to see his tough, street cop of a partner break down like this, stripped of any barriers and all control was disconcerting to say the least. "Hey, buddy, easy. "  
  
Carefully, ever mindful of the terrible injuries on the slowly healing body, Hutch gathered the other man close, wrapping him in a protective embrace. "Easy... shh." The dark head settled against his shoulder, blindly seeking comfort and refuge. I'm here, Starsk."  
  
He had said those words to his hurting friend before, offered himself then as now, and felt every bit as helpless then as now.  
  
Starsky swallowed a sob, bringing his free hand - the one not hampered with an IV - up to cling to the front of Hutches shirt. He hung on with a desperate intensity and Hutch held on to him, murmuring little reassurances into the dark reality. "l'm not going to let you go, Starsk. I' m here."  
  
The two men clung together, riding the tidal wave of emotion - love and support waging battle with pain and hopeless despair. Hutch could feel his friend trembling with the effort at regaining control of himself; could sense his shame for breaking down. With a jolt the blond realized his own face was wet, but refused to relinquish his hold on the other to wipe away the tears. They didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered except the fact that Starsky was hurting.  
  
After a long time the tears slowed, the gasping breath of the injured man barely heard over the low hum of the hospital equipment. The dark head finally lay quiet against Hutch's shoulder but neither man made a move to separate; they simply sat, needing the touch, drawing warmth and comfort from each other.  
  
Hutch closed his eyes tightly, laying his cheek against the bowed head. There were no words left - none needed. The touch was enough. He raised one hand and gently stroked the soft curls once, twice. "You all right?" He got an unconvincing nod, barely felt against his cheek. The blond drew the other man closer against his chest - friend, partner, brother, firm foundation - supporting him gently. "Don' t hurt so much, Starsky," he whispered, voice full of emotion. "I can't stand to see you hurt anymore."  
  
The hand entangled in the front of Hutch's shirt gently disengaged, slipping around Hutch's waist and hugging him with more determination than strength. "Hutch..."  
  
"Quiet." Hutch returned the hug, then allowed Starsky to draw away, settling him back against the pillows.  
  
"l'm sorry."  
  
Hutch made a shushing noise and Starsky subsided. He suffered Hutch to untangle the IV lines, then to wipe his face with a cloth, only then noticing the wet streaks on Hutches own face.  
  
"Hey..-" He touched the other's cheek gently, "I'm really sorry, It's just that ...."  
  
Hutch sniffed and swiped at his face with a rueful grin. "No need to apologize, partner. Guess we're both a little down today. "  
  
"Yeah." Starsky heaved a deep sigh. "It* s just finding out.... Oh, man, I feel so... useless."  
  
"Starsky." There was a new determination in Hutch's voice that caused the other man to peer at him curiously. "Things will work out. I don't know how yet," he raised a hand forestalling the automatic inquiry on the other's lips, "but it will. I promise. "  
  
A heartbeat passed before that slow, crooked grin lighted the other's thin face. "Guess that's good enough for me. When ol' Ken Hutchinson speaks--"  
  
"People listen!" they finished together with a laugh. It felt good to laugh. And it would work out. Somehow. Because no matter what happened, they'd still be together. Down whatever path the future would lead them, they'd walk it together... as partners.  
  
Hutch sagged deeper into the chair across from Dobey's desk with a weary sigh. Three weeks! So glad that case was over.  
  
The case was finished - successfully. Why was there no feeling of satisfaction? Sure, he and O'Brian had captured the wino murderer, but the elation he usually felt at the successful completion of a case was missing and Hutchinson knew why: Starsky wasn't here to share the success with him.  
  
He sighed. Seven years ago, who would have thought that having someone at his back could make such a difference in his life? But difference he had made, and without Starsky there was no sparkle left to this job. Without mulling the possibilities one more second. Hutch raised his head and began to talk. "Captain?"  
  
"Hmmm?" came the distracted reply. "What is it?"  
  
"I'm resigning. Captain, and so is Starsky." This took a finite amount of time to register, while Hutch braced himself for the inevitable explosion. It never came.  
  
Dobey regarded him with eyes uncharacteristically soft. "I've been expecting this, Ken. Wondered how long it was going to take you to make up your mind."  
  
The surprise, it seemed, was all on Hutchinson's side. "Captain, how could you have known when I didn't?"  
  
Dobey walked around to perch precariously on the edge of his desk- From this vantage point, he could stare down into the younger man's face, could see all too clearly the lines etched into the smooth skin, the weariness which marked his soul even deeper. "I've told you about Elmo Jackson?"  
  
Hutch scrubbed his face wearily, his fingers rasping on the growth of blond beard along his jaw. "He was your partner back when you were a street cop. We put his murderer away two years ago. "  
  
"I told you that much but I didn't really tell you about Elmo, did I?" Hutch shook his head in the negative and, after a moment, Dobey went on, "Elmo and I went through the Academy together and managed to get assigned as a team when we made plainclothes. He was a good man, fine cop. Honest, brave as they come - too brave, maybe. You know that old saying, where angels fear to tread? That was Elmo. If there was action going down, you could be sure Elmo was right in the middle of it. I remember once.,.." He broke off, oddly introspective. Hutch had the impression Dobey wasn't so much as aware of his presence at this point; he was elsewhere, elsewhen, back with his best friend. Dobey shook himself after a bit, returning to the present and to Hutch. "Anyway, we worked together a lot of years. And then he was killed."  
  
Mirror-image pain flickered across dissimilar features, each reliving what had been the worst experience of their lives. Dobey, with the buffer of time gone by, recovered first, focusing on the younger man's face, brown eyes boring into blue with a strange mixture of empathy and a wistful envy. "If Elmo had lived, I don't know what we would have done, but I don't think I'd have wanted to risk him on the streets again. He was my best friend and I loved him. Losing him was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and if it had been me given a second chance, I know what I would have done with it.  
  
"You were given a second chance. Ken," he went on after a pause, "and I know you're not going to waste it, either." Shared knowledge flashed between the two, leaving a rare, sympathetic resonance singing in the air. Hutch released a pent-up breath, unaware that he had been holding it, and relaxed a bit into the chair.  
  
The relief of the decision being made and the sympathy from his superior officer was a soothing balm to shattered nerve. He smiled up at Dobey. "You do understand then." It was not a question. "God, I'm tired." Hutch rubbed bloodshot eyes before meeting that brown gaze again. "You've heard that the chances are he'll never qualify for street work again?" Dobey nodded. "There was so much damage, he...." He licked dry lips, tried again. "He's going to try to qualify with the Review Board. You know Starsky." Dobey did. "Stubborn idiot won't give up until he does. He'll kill himself trying. Or we'll end up right back on the streets facing the same stuff over and over."  
  
"I don't think you're going to have to worry about that, Ken. I saw the medical reports, too."  
  
Hutch shot him a startled look but had to grudgingly concede the point. The damage to his partner's chest and abdomen was extensive - muscles held together by wire, damage to the heart and lungs. Prognosis was excellent that he would regain his health, but Starsky would never enjoy either the strength or athletic prowess he d once had. In short, there was very little chance the man would ever pass a medical board review. He would be condemned to driving a desk for the rest of his career - anathema to an active street cop, slow death for a man like Starsky.  
  
Hutch refocused with a start, only now becoming aware that Dobey was speaking again. "Huh? What did you say. Cap?"  
  
"I asked," Dobey repeated patiently, "if you'd made any plans yet? Have any idea what you're going to do?"  
  
Hutch nodded slowly. "Oddly enough, I do have an idea. I've got a cousin who lives in a small town called Langston, Oregon. Her husband is the Chief of Police. "  
  
"Langston, where?"  
  
"Langston, Oregon." Hutch laughed shortly. "It's a small town high up in the Cascades. Tourism mostly. You know the kind - hunting during the fall, skiing in the winter, quiet all year 'round."  
  
Dobey gaped. "What do you plan to do in a place like Langston, Oregon?"  
  
Hutch laughed again, a lighter sound as the weights dropped away one by one. And they were dropping away - decision made, a plan of action taking form and... Starsky was alive! All at once the world was almost worth living in again.  
  
"My cousin's husband, Neil, is police chief. Last time I talked with him, he was looking to expand his department, and he asked if I was interested in a position with him. Suddenly, I think I am."  
  
He smiled a bright, golden smile, and it was as if a shaft of sunlight had lighted the room from within. "Don't you see, Cap? A small town with a low crime rate - you keep a few tourists in line, petty thefts, that sort of thing. A small town like that won't be so strict with their medical requirements - nothing I can't talk Neil around, anyway. It'll be a place for Starsky to regain his health - fresh air, trees and grass. He can even be a cop again."  
  
And be safe. Safe and alive.  
  
Dobey chuckled indulgently at the other's unbridled enthusiasm, but felt compelled to bring up one small, if important, point. "You're forgetting one thing. Ken."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Starsky. What if he doesn't want to move to... uh... Oregon? Starsky's a city boy - always has been. You're askin' him to make a pretty big change. You sure he'll do it?" "He'll do it." Hutch spoke with an assurance born of seven years as partner, friend, and brother to David Starsky. "He'll go because l am. We're partners."  
  
Once again that wistful envy flickered in Dobey's eyes and was gone. "Yeah, he'll go." A beat. "Well, what are you sitting on your butt for? You've got some arrangements to make, don't you?"  
  
The sunshine smile lit again. "Yeah. Biggest one is figuring out how to tell Starsk he just went country!"  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

As predicted, Starsky was aghast at the thought of leaving warm, sunny LA for the "God-forsaken, barren boondocks!" "Are you crazy, Hutch?!" he asked, horrified. "You want to drag me out into the mountains?"  
  
"You make it sound like a dirty word," Hutch admonished mildly. "The Cascades are beautiful, Starsk. Mountains, woods, wild game, skiing... tourists."  
  
"Tourists?" Starsky groaned theatrically, his eastern accent growing thicker. "You mean I got 'ta babysit tourists? Come on. Hutch, I don't know nuthin' 'bout the woods or tourists or--"  
  
"Starsky." Hutch interrupted what was developing into a rather promising monologue on the evils of small towns in general and Langston, Oregon, in particular. "I've already talked with Neil. Once you get your strength back, we'll be able to work around any... uh... restrictions you might have." He finished lamely, shifting uncomfortably under Starsky's jaundiced eye, which was still boring into him.  
  
That eye softened somewhat at his friend's obvious discomfort. Romantic soul though he might possess, Starsky had survived on the streets for far too long to be anything but a realist, and he knew the score as well as Hutch did. "You don't think I'm going to pass the medical board either, do you?" he asked.  
  
The blond shook his head miserably. "No, buddy," he answered just as softly, "I don't."  
  
"They'll put me behind a desk."  
  
"And we won't be partners anymore." Hutch finished the thought which hung between them.  
  
Starsky nodded and closed his eyes, acutely conscious of his friend's presence. He heard a rustle as Hutch leaned closer, and opened them again. "About time for your pill, isn't it?" the blond asked, glaring at his watch. "I'll get the nurse."  
  
He made to move off but was brought up short as Starsky's steely fingers left his hand to lock around his wrist. "No... I...." The grip tightened for a moment, the only outward sign of pain Starsky now permitted to show. It was suddenly, vitally important that Hutch not leave him, not yet, not until the conversation was done. "Hutch, wait. Just a minute, okay? I-- I want to talk about this without being doped up. I hate that. Can't think, can't...." He realized that he was rambling; even now the drugs were still acting on his system, clouding his thoughts. He gave a tug on Hutch's wrist, pulling him down to sit on the edge of the hospital bed.  
  
"Hutch, you don't have to do this." He felt a desire to verbalize this and was grateful that Hutch let him go on even though both were aware that these words were never - had never been-necessary between them. "You'll be giving up everything. you have a career here, a... new... partner. You don't have to do this. Hutch. Not for me."  
  
Hutchinson waited patiently until the stumbling if earnest words were out. "You finished now?" he asked. Starsky nodded. "Good. Now that you have that out of your system you can listen to me." He leaned forward until he could rest his chin in his palm. "I'm not doing this for you, Starsk. Not really. I'm doing this for me, too - for both of us."  
  
"I don't know, buddy." Hutch ran one hand through his shaggy blond hair, turning his other hand to recapture Starsky 's fingers. "I guess I'm just getting old - and tired. I'm tired of hurting and I'm even more tired of watching you hurt. I'm tired of fighting the filth and the poison and the never-ending stink of this city. I'm just... tired."  
  
He raised his head, meeting the sympathy Starsky telegraphed in his eyes. "I want out, Starsk, and I want you out. Can't you understand that?" Hutch tightened his grip as his plea became more impassioned, more desperate. "We've been given a second chance. When you... died... I prayed, Starsky. I prayed to a God I'm not even sure I believe in that if we were given a second chance I... no, we wouldn't waste it. I don't want to waste it, buddy.  
  
"Besides," he tousled Starsky's dark cuts affectionately, "you're my partner whether we're cops or not. I don't need another one." Echoed shadows of another declaration made a lifetime ago. I've got a partner. I don't need another one. Azure touched sapphire in a celebration of life. "Give it a try, Starsk," Hutch prodded though he must have been fully aware that it was no longer necessary. "If you really hate it, we'll try something else."  
  
We will... we... "Guess I don't have much choice," Starsky grumbled with mock reluctance. "Ain't no way I can watch out for you from here."  
  
They both smiled, drinking in the warmth of the moment - of the new beginning. Then Starsky snapped his fingers in sudden recall. "Hey, I nearly forgot. They're gonna let me out'a here tomorrow!" His eyes shone like a little boy's with a new toy and Hutch grinned in response.  
  
"All right! What time do you get sprung?"  
  
"High noon, partner," Starsky answered in his best John-Wayne-by-way-of- Brooklyn accent. "And you'd better have a pizza standing by, too, 'cause one more day of this hospital food...." He made a gauging sound. "I'm gonna have to stock up if I'm gonna be living in the freaking mountains."  
  
"Starsky, they've got pizza in Oregon, you know."  
  
"They do?" He brightened with mock surprise. "Hey, maybe this won't be so bad after all! They...."  
  
Starsky's new-born enthusiasm was cut short when a very large nurse entered, bearing a tray. "Time for your pill, Mr. Starsky."  
  
Starsky regarded the woman with obvious distaste. "l'm fine. I don't need it."  
  
The nurse - Mrs. Wiggins according to the name tag pinned to one ample breast - sighed deeply. "We go through this every four hours," she explained to Hutch. "Okay, you, for the last time, you either take the pill or I call an orderly in here and we'll give you a shot." She glared. "Your choice, mister."  
  
Hutch giggled at the expression on his friend's face. "Go on, Starsk, take the pill. It won't be for much longer."  
  
"Yeah, right. But you just watch out, sister," he growled menacingly, "won't be much longer before I can take you." He eyed the woman dubiously. "Well, in two out of three, anyway."  
  
"Dream on, buster." Nurse Wiggins waited until Starsky had swallowed the pill. "Good boy." She picked up a chart clipped to the bedpost. "Hmmm, I see you're getting out of here tomorrow." Starsky nodded enthusiastically, good humor restored. "Finally. And if you're ever back in here...."  
  
"Ain't no way, baby. Hutch 'n me are goin' ta Oregon. Gonna become mountain men."  
  
Nurse Wiggins drew the sheet up over the bandaged chest, the smallest hint of amusement tugging one stern lip when his eyelids drooped "Sleepy? I'm not surprised. It's way past time for your nap."  
  
"Nap?" Starsky snorted. "I'm old enough to decide for myself when I wanna sleep. 'Kin even go to the john by myself."  
  
"Fine." Nurse Wiggins threw up her hands in exasperation, muttering, "One more day. Just one more day." But she winked conspiratorially at Hutch as she left.  
  
"Hutch?" faintly, more of an invocation than a question.  
  
The blond stepped near the bed again and patted one shoulder comfortingly. Then he slipped his hand down the lax arm and picked up his friend's hand, massaging it lightly. "Right here, buddy."  
  
"Stay? Please?" One bleary eye fixed itself appealingly on spot where he estimated Hutch's face should be.  
  
"I'll be here, Starsk." "Promise?" "I promise."  
  
That was enough. Starsky closed his eyes, satisfied. "Good- Talk to you later, then."  
  
"Sure, partner." Starsky smiled at him and, within minutes, was fast asleep.  
  
Hutch stood watching his partner a long time after that, his fingers still unconsciously locked around the now slack hand. "Later is a really good word, Starsk," he murmured quietly. "I didn't think we'd have another 'later' ever again." He laid one hand gently against the soft curls. "We don't get any more second chances, Starsk, and thanks for not making us waste this one."  
  
Starsky turned slightly, nestling against Hutch's hand trustingly In his sleep. Tears blurred Hutch's vision, rolling unchecked down his cheeks. In a sudden, impulsive act. Hutch bowed his head, "Thank you, God," he whispered into the still room. "And God? I... believe," *** 


	4. Chapter 4

The old Ford wheezed to a halt in front of a trim little two story house nestled amid a stand of pines. The late summer air was cool and moist this high in the mountains, refreshing after the blistering furnace Los Angeles became this time of year.  
  
Hutch heaved a sigh of relief. It had been a grueling drive up here - nearly two days cooped up with a convalescent who'd spent his time either bitching about having to leave his own car behind, thanking God Hutch had "seen the light" and sold Belle, his little sports car, or dozing uncomfortably against the armrest. Hutch took a moment to enjoy the silence of the area, the peace which permeated the pleasant woods.  
  
Home. The word didn't seem to fit somehow. Home was the city, concrete instead of wood, the smell of burning fossil fuels rather than the gentle fragrances of moss and flowers. Pleasant but... home? Maybe not yet, but it would be. Would have to be. Second chances came once in a lifetime if at all, and this was theirs.  
  
Hutch savored the serenity of the area another moment before turning to look at his partner. Starsky had fallen into an exhausted slumber nearly two hours ago and hadn't so much as stirred since; he was going to have quite a stiff neck when he awoke. Hutch gave a long-suffering sigh and gave his friend a shake. "Come on. Wake up."  
  
"Hmphgh?" One eye opened to glare at him blearily.  
  
"We're here, Starsk."  
  
"Hmmm." Starsky deigned open the other eye and peered around curiously. "This is... ouch!" One hand clasped his neck. "Son of a-- That hurts!" He glared at Hutch as if somehow this was all his fault.  
  
Hutch shrugged sympathetically. "Maybe Kathy has some aspirin or something."  
  
"Nah, I'm okay." Starsky dismissed the subject shortly as he'd been dismissing everything else associated with his health of late. "So this is your cousin's house, huh?" "Yup."  
  
Starsky turned his head - carefully - the better to examine his surroundings. "Looks kind'a... barren, don't it?"  
  
"It looks perfect." Hutch forced his cramped legs from the car and stood tall, stretching his muscles back into some semblance of workable order. "Peaceful... quiet..."  
  
Starsky followed more slowly, finally succeeding in extricating himself from a car seat determined, it seemed, to swallow him whole. "Doesn't seem to be anyone around." "Let's find out." Hutch led the way up onto the porch. Before he'd quite reached it, a whirlwind of arms, legs and hair had streaked through the door and thrown itself into his arms.  
  
"Kenny" Kathy Conner greeted him warmly. She was a trim blonde in her mid- thirties, a pleasant looking woman possessed of a pair of large blue eyes and a winning smile.  
  
"Hi, Kathy!" Hutch returned the hug enthusiastically. Kathy had always been his favorite cousin. When they were growing up, they had been as close as brother and sister until Kathy's family had moved to Oregon in the early '70's, They had kept in touch, however, and Hutch had been present to give the bride away when she'd wed Neil Connor a few years ago.  
  
"Hutch, you look so different!" She pulled back to study him critically. "Your hair - it's so long. And that mustache.. My lord, you went hippie on me, didn't you?!" Hutch had to laugh at the familiar joke. Hippies had always been at the bottom of Kathy 's list of "in" folk.  
  
"Not exactly. Cop's gotta be inconspicuous when he's working plainclothes, Kath."  
  
"Plain is right," she chided. Her attention shifted to take in Starsky, who'd been quietly standing behind Hutch, waiting to be noticed. "You must be Davey." The megawatt smile flashed on again. "Kenny's told me all about you."  
  
"Uh, yeah? Believe me, I' m not half that bad." Starsky smiled a bit shyly, obviously taken aback by the woman's friendly enthusiasm. "Gladtameetcha."  
  
"Come on, coffee's on the stove." Kathy hooked a hand through both men's arm and ushered them into a neat living room done in a comfortable rustic style. "We've just finished redecorating the place; the previous owners were soooo city."  
  
"How long've you lived here, Kathy?" Starsky asked politely.  
  
"Only about a year. We bought this house from some people who couldn't hack the outdoorsie life...." Starsky sent a smug I-told-you-so glare Hutch's way but mercifully allowed the subject to pass. For once. "... so we just snapped it right up. It's got two bedrooms, two bathrooms - perfect for when we decide to have children." She gestured toward a comfortable, overstuffed sofa. "Why don't you two sit down and relax while I get the coffee. Unless you'd prefer something stronger?"  
  
"No, coffee's fine." Hutch settled onto the sofa with a sigh. "I can use a little caffeine about now."  
  
"Poor dear." Kathy was instantly sympathetic. "It must have been a tiring drive for you both. Tell you what, you'll stay here tonight and get some rest. Time enough to get settled in your new house tomorrow. Unh-uh." She waved aside the automatic protest, "I won't take no for an answer. Besides..." she switched abruptly to cajolery, "...we haven't seen each other in years! We've a lot to catch up on."  
  
Neither man was in shape to argue. "Sounds good, Kath. I am bushed," Hutch agreed.  
  
"Good!" She bounced - that was the only word for it -- after the coffee, leaving the two men alone in the sunlit living room.  
  
"How you doing, buddy?" Hutch asked the suspiciously quiet Starsky.  
  
"'M fine- Well," he relented a bit before the skeptical look on Hutches face, "a little tired maybe +" He lowered himself slowly onto the couch.  
  
"Do you still have those pain pills the doctor gave you?"  
  
Exasperation warred with tolerant affection on Starsky's drawn face before the affection won out. "I'm fine, Hutch. Really. Besides, they're packed away somewhere."  
  
"Ill find them later," Hutch promised. He touched the other uncertainly on the arm. "Starsk, tell me what you think."  
  
"About?"  
  
Hutch gestured expansively. "This. The town, the job - the new life."  
  
The dark-haired man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We've talked this all out before we... before you quit the department, dummy."  
  
"Yeah. Guess I just needed to hear it again."  
  
Starsky turned to face his friend directly. "There wasn't anything left there for me, Hutch. No job, nothing. And with Ma living with Nicky now.... " He ran a hand through his dark curls. "There's nothing for me in New York, either. You're all I got, Hutch. I'd've moved to the South Pole if I'd had to."  
  
A surge of warmth filled the blond man at such openly expressed unguardedness. There was no one else in the world that Starsky could let his barriers down with like this and no one else Hutch trusted with his own unshielded spirit. "Me, too, buddy. It's going to take some getting used to, though. "  
  
Starsky laughed shortly. "That's for sher." He gawked openly at a deer head mounted majestically over the fireplace and shuddered. "A lot of getting used to. Hey, Hutch, we're not gonna have dead animals on the wall, too, are we?"  
  
"God, I hope not I"  
  
"That 'dead animal' took my husband three days to track." Kathy entered carrying a tray of coffee cups, milk, and sugar. "And he's pretty darn proud of it, too."  
  
"No offense, Mrs. Conner." Starsky took another look. "It does look kind of... uh..."  
  
"Morbid?" Hutch supplied.  
  
"That's not what I was gonna say." Starsky glared at him. "I mean, it's... uh..."  
  
Kathy had by this time, dissolved into giggles. "It's okay, Davey," she managed. "I think it's morbid, too! And the name's Kathy," she admonished, shaking a finger at him. "Karlene, if you want to be formal, but my friends call me Kathy." She smiled that warm smile again and Starsky visibly relaxed. She had a lot of Hutch's quick friendliness about her, and a talent for making one feel at ease in her presence.  
  
"Neil's working late tonight," Kathy went on. "Said he had to check out a report that Old Man Lesnick was stealing chickens again. "  
  
"Stealing chickens?" Starsky and Hutchinson echoed in unison exchanging a look.  
  
"Oh, that's terrific-" Starsky roiled his eyes theatrically. "Just think, Hutch, pretty soon we'll be chasing chicken snatchers, too!"  
  
Hutch laughed despite himself. "You're a real bastard sometimes, you know that, Starsk?" He turned back to the woman. "That reminds me, Kath, I heard from Susan Henry and she said to tell you..."  
  
The two cousins chatted on, reliving good times past and exchanging bits of news and gossip on mutual acquaintances during dinner and well into the evening. Through it all, Starsky sat quietly, joining in with a joke or remark, but generally just absorbing the cheerful atmosphere and relishing the peaceful serenity which radiated from Hutch like sunbeams.  
  
For his part. Hutch was feeling as if a new lease on life had just been handed to him, bound in silk and embossed in gold. This was a good place to bring Starsky - a healing place for them both. Even the aura of the town was different - cleaner, purer. I mean, Neil is out chasing a chicken thief, for crissakes! he told himself genially. He listened to Kathy chat on about the town.  
  
"It isn't always this quiet," she was saying. "The fishermen are usually a tame bunch, but the hunters can be quite boisterous and the skiers come with their own package of aggravations. Nothing too rough, though," she finished. "Not like what you are probably used to in LA."  
  
"Believe me, Kathy, we're both ready to make a change." Hutch started to say more but caught a glimpse of Starsky out of the corner of his eye. The darker man was blinking sleepily while at the same time manfully stifling a yawn. Hutch realized how tired he was himself. "Man, but I'm tired. Think it's time I turned in. What about you, Starsk?"  
  
Starsky nodded gratefully. "Shower first," he said longingly. "A hot shower."  
  
"You're in luck - you've even got your own bathroom!" Kathy bounced to her feet. "Come on, I'll show you up. "Oooh, you're going to love your new house," she went on, leading the way upstairs. "It's got two huge bedrooms and a fireplace and... Ooops, here we are!" She opened the door on a pleasant little bedroom vaguely reminiscent of an Indian lodge. "Don't you love what Neil did with this room?"  
  
Hutch plastered on a smile. "It's just great, Kath. Real... homey. "  
  
The woman smiled, pleased. "Hmmmm. Well, good night." She stood on tiptoes to bestow a kiss on Hutch's cheek. "Good night, Davey," she waved across the room. "Bathroom's through there. If you need anything else, just call." Then she was gone to leave the two men to stand gazing sheepishly at each other.  
  
"Wow!" Starsky whistled appreciatively. "That's one lady I'd hate to have to keep up with."  
  
"Quite a handful," Hutch agreed. "Why don't you go ahead and shower? I think I'll wait until morning."  
  
"Kay." He disappeared into the bathroom and soon the sound of running water and an extremely off-key version of Figaro drifted through the closed door.  
  
Hutch undressed wearily while Starsky was bathing, and sat down on one of the beds. He really was tired, but it was a more relaxed, unstressed tired than he'd felt in months. Tomorrow they'd start to set the new house in order. It was only a temporary arrangement. He might love Starsky like a brother, but living with him for too long was out of the question. They had different tastes and lifestyles and would drive each other quite mad post haste.  
  
For now, though, sharing a house would help them both adjust to the move. It would also. Hutch was honest enough to admit - but only to himself - allow him to indulge in a little overprotective coddling of his partner until Starsky's health had returned a bit. His musings were interrupted by a soft knock.  
  
"Ken?" Neil Conner poked his head around the door, grinning, then came all the way in when he saw Hutch still awake. "Hey, Ken!"  
  
"Neil!" Hutch returned the warm handshake with great pleasure. "You're even bigger than the last time I saw you, you old bull moose!"  
  
Conner laughed and patted his stomach with a flourish. "It's Kathy's cooking. Ken, my boy! Good wife'll do it every time. "  
  
Towering over Hutch's own 6'1" and tipping the scales at 230, Conner was an impressive looking man, handsome in a rugged outdoors way. He'd been Chief of Police of Langston for nearly ten years now. As warm and friendly as his wife, he was a well-liked and popular official who carried the support of the entire town.  
  
Neil had taken to Hutch immediately and had urged him repeatedly to leave the fast - if short - life of the LAPD, and join him in keeping Langston a safe, friendly place to live and work. Hutch had thought the offer over often - every time the stresses of LA got to be too much, in fact - but had never seriously considered accepting it until late. Conner had been sympathetic when Hutch had first approached him on the matter of the shooting.  
  
"Sure, I can still use you up here, Kenny," he had agreed readily. "You know Kathy and me've been wanting you to move up here for some time now."  
  
"Neil, what about Starsky? He's the reason I want to get out of here in the first place." Hutch had held his breath anxiously.  
  
"Tell you what, Kenny," Conner had replied after some thought, "Blake Gordon - you remember him? - he's retiring in about six months. Then I'll be needing another man anyway. You said it was going to take awhile for your partner to recover, right? He can help out Blake for awhile, then ease his way back into normal duty. That is, if you're sure he can?"  
  
"He can." Hutch had closed his eyes, overwhelmed by sheer relief. "Thanks, Neil. You don't know how much I appreciate it."  
  
"Don't thank me, buddy boy. Glad to have you." That had settled it all and here they were, two and a half months later, with the Langston Police Department.  
  
"Kathy told me you d come up to bed," Neil was saying, "but I wanted to say hi. Have a hard trip in?"  
  
Hutch drew a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up in little spikes. "A long trip. Glad it's over." He paused, unaccustomedly diffident. "Listen, Neil, I just wanted to thank you again for setting this up. I owe you for this, man."  
  
Conner waved away the gratitude. "I told you not to thank me, pal. Getting two famous LA hotshots on my squad is quite a feather in my cap, anyway."  
  
Hutch squinted. "Two...? What are you talking about?"  
  
Conner laughed lightly at his confusion. "You boys are pretty well known, especially after single-handedly taking out an institution like Gunther Industries." Hutch frowned at the reference and Conner moved quickly to apologize. "Hey, I' m sorry if I touched a sore spot, Kenny. All I'm saying is that I didn't have to take any flak from the town council over this."  
  
Hutch nodded absently, but before he could speak the door to the bathroom flew open and Starsky came out, a towel draped around his waist.  
  
"Hutch, I can't find my...." He faltered, then trailed off before the expression on Conner's face. Conner's eyes were wide with shock, his gaze locked firmly on the bullet scars scattered across the smaller man's torso.  
  
"Oh, my...." Conner gulped once, then tore his gaze forcefully away from the scarred chest. "I'm sorry...I... never realized...."  
  
"S'okay. They have that effect on people." Starsky self-consciously drew on a robe, clutching it closed in such an oddly defensive gesture that Hutch took an involuntary step in his direction.  
  
Realizing at last how he must have looked, Conner rushed to apologize. "Oh, man. I'm sorry. Kenny ll tell you I'm not usually such a rude s.o.b." He stuck out a hand. "Neil Conner. "  
  
"Dave Starsky." Starsky accepted the gesture and found his hand engulfed in a grip only a little smaller than a polar bear's paw.  
  
"Good to meet you, Dave. Hey, sorry about the reaction. I haven't seen holes like that since 'Nam."  
  
"Sometimes they bring the war to you," Hutch commented soberly, then pointedly changed the subject. "Kathy said you were checking out a theft tonight?"  
  
"A theft?" Conner looked blank, then burst into a loud chuckle. "You mean Old Man Lesnick? He's been stealing chickens from the Diamond family for almost twenty-five years. The Diamonds always report it, I always check it out, and Old Man Lesnick always eats the evidence before I get there." Ail three laughed at that. Conner's eyes sparkled mischievously. "At least now I'll have two assistants to handle the more... 'interesting' little chores like that."  
  
"Oh, god," Starsky groaned out loud. "I can see it on my resume. Last big case solved? Caught chicken snatcher egg handed." He snickered. "Get it? Egg..."  
  
He barely ducked the pillow Hutch tossed. "And I can see it on my resume," the blond retorted. "Last case solved? Murder of David Starsky."  
  
"So Johnny Carson I'm not." Starsky grinned, all self-consciousness gone. "So tell me. Chief, when do we start chasing chicken snatchers?"  
  
"Not for awhile, actually." Conner turned serious. "I plan to keep you both assigned to the town for awhile - at least until you've learned to handle yourself in the woods. We work closely with the Forestry Service," he explained. "Sometimes it's necessary to mount rescue missions for lost hunters or skiers. And there's been a couple of times we've had to organize a manhunt for criminals trying to hide out back in the backwoods. Sometimes all you can do is root'em out, weed by weed. "  
  
This pleasant homily did nothing to salve Starsky *s obvious unease. "Back in the woods, eh?" he croaked nervously. "With the bears and snakes and...."  
  
Conner guff awed outright at that. "Don'tt you worry too much about them. Kid. Just remember that they're as scared of you as you are of them."  
  
"Don't count on it," Starsky muttered darkly. "Skiers, hub?" he brightened. "I haven't skied in a couple of years. We get to patrol the slopes?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and described curves vaguely reminiscent of an exceptionally well endowed ski bunny.  
  
"Well now, I never said there weren't no 'fringe benefits* to the job, did I?" Conner wiggled his own eyebrows making Hutch begin to feel as if he were in a particularly bad Groucho Marx movie. He sighed. Loudly.  
  
"What's'a matter, boy, don't like snow bunnies?" Hutch ignored his partner's bad accent and turned back to Conner. "Listen, Neil, when do we start? Kathy said she had a house for us and..."  
  
Conner held up a hand. "No rush, Kenny. How about Monday? That'll give you three days to get settled."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"What about me?" Starsky asked, the faintest hint of worry in his voice. "I know your man isn't retiring for six months but...."  
  
"Tell you what," Neil began after a pause during which he was obviously recalling the scars, "you come in the end of the month and start acquainting yourself with the office, jail, paperwork, that sort of thing. I figure by the time Blake retires, you should be ready to take over without any training overlaps "  
  
"Okaaay!" Starsky cheered, pleased. Back to work at last!  
  
"Better let you two hot shots get a little shut-eye." The big man rose and stretched. "Bit tired myself tonight. Old Man Lesnick led me quite a chase this time." He bade them good night, leaving the two men alone once again.  
  
Starsky stood, plucking at the front of his robe pensively. "Well?" Hutch asked after a moment. You gonna tell me what's on your mind?"  
  
"Nothing much." Starsky pulled his robe tighter. "It was just the way he looked at me. I wasn't sure he was going to let me on the Force at all for a minute there."  
  
"But he did."  
  
"Yeah." He reached across the bed to lay a hand warmly along Hutch's arm. "I think it really is gonna be all right, don't you?"  
  
Hutch looked up into the face of his friend, and a sense of peace and contentment wrapped itself around two weary and battered men. "I think so, too. I wasn't sure at first, though."  
  
"Me, neither," Starsky answered unnecessarily. "But, Hutch..." He settled onto the side of the bed still maintaining a grip on Hutch's shoulder. "It's starting to feel right again/ Really right. I think I might even learn to like it here."  
  
Hutch smiled, his contentment increasing exponentially. "Me, too. I think chasing 'chicken snatchers' instead of junkies might make for a nice change."  
  
"Don't forget the snow bunnies." Starsky leered.  
  
"Fringe benefits!"  
  
"All riiightl"  
  
"As soon as you're back in shape," Hutch added piously, fluffing his pillows.  
  
Starsky, who was busy routing in his suitcase, looked up suspiciously. "In shape?"  
  
"Can't have you hurting yourself chasing chicken snatchers and snow bunnies."  
  
They both laughed and knew - really knew - that Langston was a good place - a healing pace - where two damaged souls could recuperate and start to live again.  
  
Genesis. *** 


	5. Chapter 5

A chill wind stirred his hair, flapping the jacket around his body. He tugged it tighter, closing it across his chest, and peered around into the dark. Where was he? No moon, no light, no point of reference to orient himself by. Just a lonely road cloaked in a Stygian blanket. He didn't find it strange to be walking this isolated path in the middle of the night, he only knew that he was expected... somewhere. Somewhere ahead.  
  
He walked faster, then broke into a loping run as a sensation of purest dread grasped his heart and squeezed. Fear- no, terror - such as he'd never known before lent wings to his feet- Faster. Faster! But the road only stretched longer, his goal farther and farther away.  
  
What was he afraid of? What was pushing him to his limits and beyond? Why...? ("I'm pushing the odds, Starsk.") Starsky! That was it! Starsky needed him. He was in mortal danger, perhaps dying, and he was counting on Hutch for help - to protect him.  
  
"Hang on, buddy. I'm coming," Hutch panted, fighting a stitch in his side. "Please, God, please let me be in time." In the distance a high-pieced, wavering scream shattered the night, raising the hackles on the back on his neck. Oh, God, Starsk!  
  
The scream died away to a low, animal moan, and then the silence fell again more terrible than before. The road - endless. A despairing cry escaped his parched lips and was lost to the night.  
  
Wait, was that...? Yes, a light! Amorphous, restless - close. He was there - Starsky was there. Close.  
  
The road narrowed, leading him through a stone archway, moss-covered, crumbling. There was a plaque against one supporting curve, a name carved into the stone. He couldn't make it out. It was worn nearly smooth by the wind and weather of uncounted ages. He turned away uncaring. It didn't matter anyway.  
  
A sound off to his left brought him around into a crouch, hand reaching automatically for the gun which was not there. He listened intently for the sound to repeat itself, but the utter stillness of the place was unbroken. "Starsk?" he called low, quietly, tensed for action. But there was nothing save that same unnerving silence.  
  
Cautiously, ever cautiously, he moved into the direction of that first sound, a great golden cat stalking prey. There was danger here - every instinct screamed its warning, but they were all disregarded. Danger there might be, but Starsky was there, too, and he was all that was important now.  
  
Wait... A twig snapped... There! Just beyond that ring of stones... that ring of... graves...  
  
Graves? Is that where he was? A cemetery?  
  
The circle of headstones had expanded, hedging him in on all sides, choking in their proximity. Trapped. He was... No! He couldn't stay here. His friend was out there, hurt, dying, needing help.  
  
"Starsky!"  
  
The echoed cry was carried off on a wind pounding at him now at a hurricane force. He hunched his shoulders - no escape from the stones. No help for his friend. No....  
  
The faintest whisper of sound reached him over the harsh roar of the wind. A small, inarticulate whisper. Casting his eyes about in all directions, he finally noticed the huddled shadow against one side of the circle. He could make out the slender form of a man gleaming dully in the moonlight. (Moonlight? But there was no moonlight before.) Huddled on its side, the head resting crookedly against the nearest headstone (Familiar. So familiar.) and lying in a pool of..  
  
"No." A guttural croak. "No, please, no." Then he was on his knees, his pants soaking up the blood. The figure, so still - deathly still - hung limp when he pulled it up into his arms, remained limp when his trembling fingers checked pulse, heartbeat, breathing.... Nothing.  
  
"No!" He shouted denial into the heavens, screamed heartache and grief to the uncaring moon.  
  
"No! I lost him... again. Oh, God, I lost him again!" Tears, hot and acrid, welled over, falling down cheeks gone numb. He bugged his friend close, crying openly into the dark hair and pouring out thirty-five years worth of anguish and loss and sorrow.  
  
A long time later the tears ceased, well-springs emptied. A numbness descended like a warm cocoon, drawing light, gentle bands around his mind, shutting off pain, soothing away hurt.  
  
Starsky would have to be... taken care of. Buried. And Hutch's heart would lie in the cold earth beside him until his body mingled with that of his friend in the dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  
  
Hutch raised his head, then levered one arm under the other's knees prepared to life a weight which was suddenly far too insubstantial to have ever housed the living, breathing spirit of David Starsky.  
  
He braced himself - and froze. The eyes were open - and looking at him. "Starsky?"  
  
Blue lips curved upward into a ghostly parody of a smile which had once been golden sunshine. "Huuutch." A sibilant hiss.  
  
"Starsk, I... I don't understand. I thought you were..."  
  
"Dead?" The voice was a little stronger, becoming almost conversational. "I am dead, buddy. Dead and about-to-be-buried."  
  
A knot appeared in the pit of Hutch's stomach, his lips frozen numb. "N- no. You're not..."  
  
"'Course I am." The glazed eyes continued to stare at him, unblinking. "You killed me, remember?"  
  
"No... I... I wouldn't..." His mind reeled, insanity only a hairsbreadth away. "I...."  
  
Starsky sat up, cold fingers reaching for his face. "You must remember. Hutch. I needed you and you killed me. It's your fault I'm dead."  
  
Hutch noticed abstractedly that the lips remained locked in that grim rictus, not moving even when speaking. The eyes, black holes in a grey- white face, remained on his. Sanity slipped again, "I'm sorry... I wouldn't hurt you... I love you.. I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm..."  
  
A shadow was bending over him, shaking his shoulder frantically, calling his name in a frightened tone. The shadow - it was after Starsky!  
  
Training took over then. Without a word. Hutch buried himself from the bed, knocking the intruder to the flour. The shadow made a whooshing noise as the air was forced from its lungs - then clawed helplessly at the steely fingers slowly choking the life away.  
  
"Hutch?!"  
  
The shadow's voice was familiar. The same sibilant hiss he'd heard from....  
  
"Starsky?"  
  
With an effort. Hutch pried his fingers from the other man's neck and reached up to snap on the beside lamp. In the harsh glare he found himself sitting astride Starsky, who was blinking owlishly up at him while drawing in great gulps of air.  
  
"Whazzamattawhidya?" he gasped painfully, massaging his throat. "You tryin' ta kill me or sumptin'?" His anger faltered before the undisguised fear written across the ashen face above him. "Hutch?"  
  
"Starsky?" An unbelieving, untrusting plea offered to the dreamscape. A shaking hand descended, touching Starsky's unshaven cheek gently before the night exploded and reality dawned. "Oh, God, Starsk."  
  
Hutch scrambled off Starsky 'd body, then extended a hand to pull his friend up. "I'm sorry.... God, I could have.... Are you all right?" The words emerged in a rush, tumbling over themselves in an effort to escape.  
  
Starsky raised a hand to stem the flow. "Whoa! I'm fine. Really." He grimaced slightly coming to his knees, but deliberately restrained himself from reaching for his chest. Hutch, however, was fooled not one bit. "You are hurt. Easy, buddy, I-"  
  
"Hey I am fine." Starsky turned on his most convincing, heartwarming smile. "No harm done. You just startled me, that's all." He sobered. "Bad one, eh?"  
  
The blond sank down onto the edge of the bed and lowered his face into his hands. "You don't know."  
  
"No, but I can guess."  
  
Hutch looked up into the sympathetic eyes and concluded that maybe Starsky could guess; he'd probably had his share of nightmares since the shooting. Besides, it'd be pretty hard not to be able to guess after this little incident.  
  
They had shared Starsky's house for almost two months after Starsky had been released from the hospital, but generally the dark-haired man had rested in a drug-induced slumber night after night; thus, he was unaware of the ghosts his partner entertained whenever he closed his eyes. Until now.  
  
Sharp eyes scrutinized Hutch with new found knowledge, connecting isolated pieces of data into a collective whole. "I knew..." He cleared his throat. "I knew you were tired. Hutch, all the time- But I didn't know..,." He stumbled, "This is every night, isn't it?"  
  
The guilty look in the other man's eyes was answer enough, Anger flared, "Why didn't you ever tell me?"  
  
Hutchinson drew a shaky hand across his face. He sensed rather than saw Starsky pull himself up to sit next to him on the bed, felt a warm hand on his shoulder transmitting a calming strength which eventually soothed away the shaking and the terror.  
  
Long moments later he raised his head, "Are you sure I didn't hurt you, Starsk?"  
  
Starsky blinked, "Of course not, dummy. And you didn't answer my question. This has been going on a long time, hasn't it?"  
  
The blond head nodded reluctantly. "Every night... I think."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"I don't always remember." He dropped his head into his palms, massaging his aching temples furiously. "Sometimes I wake up and everything is gone like smoke. Other times I open my eyes and I can see it all so clearly."  
  
Starsky's hand tightened, as much support as comfort. "What do you dream about?"  
  
Hutch raised his head to regard his friend steadily for a moment. "You. The shooting. Your... death. Each night is different - unique... I... think. But each night you die because I'm not there for you. Or because I... failed you somehow. "  
  
"That's stupid." Starsky shook him gently. "You never failed me. Not ever."  
  
Hutch chuckled sourly. "My head might know that, buddy, but tell that to my gut."  
  
Silence fell again during which the only sound was the baying of a dog, distant and mournful. It was Starsky who spoke next, his voice sympathetic. "Did you tell that police psychiatrist about them?"  
  
Hutch nodded. "Dr. Marsden? I told her."  
  
"What did she say?"  
  
A shrug. "Usual crap. Delayed stress syndrome caused by the tensions of our living on the edge for so long, triggered by the trauma of watching you get shot down."  
  
"Oh." Starsky digested this for a minute. "Did she say when they would stop?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well?"  
  
A hesitant pause during which the blond ceased massaging his temples and fixed the far wall with a frown. "She... uh... said they would probably stop when...."  
  
"What?" Starsky prompted.  
  
Another pause. "When I finally realize that I'm not going to lose you again." He sank his head back into the concealing cover of his hands, only a slight quiver betraying the incredible strain in his body.  
  
Starsky sighed, his gentle tones conveying a curious combination of affection and dismay. "Hey, I'm sorry."  
  
Hutch raised his head again. "Sorry?"  
  
The dark head bobbed. "I didn't mean to put you through all this. If I' had been faster in that parking lot, Gunther's mechanics would have never got me, and you wouldn't be going through all this now."  
  
It was Hutch's turn to stare. "Starsk, I never thought you intended to get shot."  
  
Cool street wisdom glittering in hard eyes, Starsky shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way. I only meant that what happened was due to a lack in my own training -- my own responsibility... and Gunther's." Impulsively, he threw his arms around Hutch, pulling him into a hug. "And I won't die on you now, either. I promise."  
  
Laughing, Hutch returned the hug. "You promise, do you? Then I guess I'll have to promise you the same thing. It's about time we both backed off a bit from the edge, anyway. Let's face it, neither one of us is as young as we used to be,"  
  
Starsky pulled his own thirty-five-year-old body out of his partner's embrace in mock indignation. "Whadda'ya mean by that, pop? I'll have you know one of us is doing just fine."  
  
"Yeah?" Hutch yawned dramatically, then politely excused himself. "Maybe so, but the other of us is worn out, so get your juvenile delinquent ass back to you own bed and let me get some sleep. I've got a feeling tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day." *** 


	6. Chapter 6

Hutch spent the next two months working closely with the other two plainclothes detectives on the Langston police force. Jake Summerall and Lou Cranmer were about as mismatched a pair as Hutch had ever seen. Jake was a rough-hewn, ebony-skinned hulk, who wore a perpetually sullen expression disguising not at all a perpetually sullen personality. Closed- mouthed to the point of taciturnity, he was known throughout the county for being quick to settle an argument with his fists, and for caring about no one and nothing but himself, his country and his job - In that order. Personally, Hutch considered him a bully and itched to take him down, but restrained himself. He was going to have to work with this man for a long time to come.  
  
Summerall's partner was as much unlike him as two men could be. Lou Cranmer was a short man, slender to the point of emaciation but tough as whipcord when need be. As garrulous as Summerall was reticent, he filled the air with nonstop chatter consisting of stories, anecdotes, words of wisdom and once, to Hutches unbridled amusement, an endless array of bird calls designed to send any self-respecting ornithologist into hysterics.  
  
He was the perfect counterpoint for the somber Summerall. They also seemed to be the only two people in Langston who could put up with each other for more than ten minutes at a time.  
  
"Talk about the original odd couple," Hutch had privately commented to Starsky after being introduced to them.  
  
"Odd couple, maybe. But are they good cops?" Leave it to Starsky to cut right to the root of the matter. Hutch could only shrug.  
  
That question had remained unanswered for several weeks until one bright morning when Hutch had accompanied them on an unusual call.  
  
Roger Banyon was a local recluse, widely rumored to have hidden a stash of money and jewels somewhere on the isolated property he and his family had inhabited for almost four generations. No one ever visited the house - Banyon was a self-professed misanthrope who was given to shooting at trespassers with an old shotgun loaded with a half-pound of rock salt. No one who had ever confronted that formidable deterrent went back for seconds. Most people just didn't go at all.  
  
Today, however, was to be an exception to that common practice. A young boy from a neighboring farm had been taking a short cut across one corner of the Banyon property - very discreetly indeed - when he had heard what he took to be screaming coming from the direction of the house. Not being fool enough to investigate for himself, he'd returned home and informed his mother. She had immediately telephoned the police.  
  
"I don't know why I'm going through all this trouble at all, mind you," she pointed out for what seemed like the dozenth time. "But being a God fearing woman, I just felt it my duty to notify the proper authorities. I mean it is my Christian duty, don't you think? Even if it is an old bas-- er, I mean heathen like Roger Banyon"  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Hutch cut her off smoothly as she drew breath for another chorus of 'good citizen.' "We'll take care of it. Thank you for calling." He dropped the phone back into its cradle even as the outraged sputtering began. "Whew! Neil? Report of a disturbance at the home of Roger Banyon. Neighbor boy heard screams coming from inside the house."  
  
"Oh, no." Neil cursed with real feeling. "That' old reprobate sits up there just waiting for someone to cross his property line so he can use that shotgun of his. Caught me once when I was twelve." At Hutch's raised eyebrow, he chuckled reminiscently. "Just rock salt, but darned if I didn't eat standing up for weeks."  
  
He raised his voice. "Jake! Lou! I want you to go with Kenny out to the Banyon farm. Neighbor reported a disturbance."  
  
"The Banyon farm?!" Cranmer squeaked, horrified. "For the luv'a Pete, Neil! You know what that guy is like."  
  
"We don't need him along." Summerall jerked a thumb Hutch's way. "Lou and I can handle it without the city boy."  
  
"You'll ail go, Jake Conner's voice was mild enough but there was an element of steel in it that even Summerall reacted to. "If you're going all the way out to Banyon's I want you to have adequate back-up going in. There won't be much I can do for you after the fact.  
  
Summerall sniffed loudly, eloquently describing his opinion of the kind of "back up" Hutch was going to be.  
  
Hutch recognized the implied insult for what it was and reached for his jacket with a wry smile. "Don't worry, Jake," he said, double-checking his Magnum, "I'll try not to slow you down too much."  
  
An angry glare was the only reply to that, and a sullen pall reigned all the way to the dirt road turnoff heading to the Banyon estate. Cranmer broke the unusually long - for him - silence. "Pull over here, Jake," he directed. "We'll go the rest of the way in on foot. No sense advertising our presence until we have to."  
  
It was only another quarter mile to the rambling old house, which was set in a clearing bounded by a running stream on one side and a neatly tended garden on the other. Cleared land surrounded the house on all four sides. The only approach that offered even minimum concealment was a roundabout route by the north corner of the field. There, a couple of sheds and some rusting farm equipment could conceivably serve as cover.  
  
The three men moved by unspoken agreement from shadow to shadow, each keeping on eye on the house and the other on the progress of his fellows. Hutch watched his companions measuringly; they handled themselves well enough. Trained if unpracticed. The tense lines of his jaw relaxed fractionally even as his eyes began to glow.  
  
Hutch, who was in the lead, reached the house and flattened himself against one paint-peeled wall. While he waited for the others to finish traversing the yard, he took the opportunity to move near the window listening intently.  
  
"Hear anything?" Cranmer's tight whisper came from the vicinity of his shoulder.  
  
"No." Hutch stretched up on his toes to risk a cautious peek in the window. "Nothing. Lou, you and I'll take the front. Jake - cover that back door. Count of twenty."  
  
Summerall's muddy eyes narrowed stubbornly, his lips parted as though for a refusal. Then he nodded once and moved off, his feet making little crunching noises in the dirt.  
  
Hutch crossed the wide porch and flattened himself to the right of the door. Cranmer mirrored his actions on the left. On the count of twenty. Hutch rapped loudly with the barrel of his Magnum. "Mr. Banyon? This is the police. Open up." He cocked his head, listening once again, then exchanged a swift look with Cranmer at the faint scuffling barely heard from inside. The blond held up three fingers and counted again quietly.  
  
"One . two.." On three he gave the door a tremendous kick, shattering the lock and throwing it wide. Almost simultaneously, Lou Cranmer dived into the room, gun at ready. Cautiously, both men quartered the wide living room, covering each other until they'd reached the kitchen, and Cranmer had admitted Jake.  
  
"Let's start with--" Hutch's muted whisper was interrupted by a low groan coming from the direction of what appeared to be a study off to their left. Warily, expecting an ambush, the three moved down the short hall to the study door. An unspoken command, a sudden rush and three men aiming three large guns controlled the study. The room's only inhabitant, however, provided very little threat indeed.  
  
"Mr. Banyon?" Cranmer turned the battered and bloody figure over gently, laying a hand along the throat. "I got a pulse. He's in pretty bad shape though. He--"  
  
Again that faint scuffling sound, this time from the room directly overhead.  
  
"Stay with him, Lou." Hutch gestured towards the stairs with his gun. "Come on, Jake. Let's go hunting." Summerall grinned wolfishly and took the point, the stairs creaking ominously under his not-inconsiderable weight. A quick calculation brought both men to the wide-open door of an exceptionally sparsely furnished bedroom. The bed was without linen, and only an old highboy standing against the wall told of this room's ever having been inhabited. It did, however, boast one tightly-closed closet door.  
  
Crossing the hard wood floor, Summerall pressed himself against the wall to the right of the door. Hutch took up a firing position across the room and gave an all-ready sign. Jake nodded shortly, then tapped -- quite politely -- on the door. "Police," he bellowed. "Come on out."  
  
No answer. Hutch smiled grimly. "Stand back, Jake. I think I'll put a few rounds through the door. Leave my signature, so to speak."  
  
The words were barely out of his mouth before muffled shouts rang out. "No! Wait!" "Don't shoot!" Two distinct voices. "We're comin' out!"  
  
"Make sure your hands are in the clear," Hutch commanded curtly.  
  
Very slowly, the closet door opened and two frightened looking men emerged. They wore fatigue jackets, fishing caps and held their hands very high indeed. "We're comin' out. Don't shoot,"  
  
Summerall glanced inside the closet swiftly before slamming both men against the wall. "You alone?" A nod. "Good. Assume the position, you mothers, or I'll tear your heads off."  
  
The men obeyed, ail the while babbling some far-fetched story of hidden money and treasures, "The old fart should've told us where he hid the loot," one sobbed. "We only wanted the money."  
  
Jake cuffed them to the bed, then he and Hutch searched the rest of the house for good measure before herding the men downstairs to the study.  
  
"You got 'cm. Good," Cranmer nodded approvingly, "I'm afraid Mr. Banyon here is going to need an ambulance."  
  
"Right. Lou, you and Jake stay with Banyon and the Bobbsey Twins. Ill go get the car and call for an ambulance." Hutch turned to leave, but the older man halted him mid-step. "Hey, Blondie?" At Hutch's inquiring look, Lou smiled warmly. "Me'n Jake weren't so sure about you before. 'Big heroes.' 'LA hotshots.' That's all we kept hearing. We was expecting a couple 'a hot dogs. But ya done good, kid. Real good." Hutch returned the smile, his face warming at the older man's praise. "Thanks, Lou. I have to admit that I wasn't too sure about you, either."  
  
And he was gone, his step lighter than before. Backup he could count on. One more worry out of the way. Yep, things were starting to work out pretty good here in the friendly little town of Langston, Oregon. *** 


	7. Chapter 7

When he wasn't on patrol or dealing with the inevitable paperwork which was the bane of every policeman's existence, Hutch assigned himself as Starsky's chief trainer, therapist and general mother hen. The police department had access to a gymnasium early mornings and, it was there that he dragged a grumbling, protesting, half-asleep Starsky every day, putting him through a slowly increasing discipline of exercise specially designed by a doctor to build up his physical endurance safely.  
  
Isometrics were becoming easier for the man - the tone in his arms and legs was excellent and his stomach was flat and hard. There were several muscles, however, which had sustained too much damage from the bullets to take a great deal of strain. His upper body strength, in both chest and back muscles, was severely limited, causing severe pain whenever he pushed the limits imposed on him. This he found out the hard way. "Okay, Starsk, next is the routine on the nautilus."  
  
Starsky groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Some routine. All I do in yank on a couple 'a pulleys with a few pounds on each one. A ten-year- old could do that."  
  
"Maybe one could, Starsk," Hutch returned reasonably, "but the ten-year- old wouldn't have taken three slugs to the chest either. "  
  
Starsky shot him a dirty look. "I'm bored," he replied crossly. "And this is taking too long. I'll never get back on the Force at this rate." He peered around the gym. "Hey, look! Somebody put up the rings! I used to work out on them in high school!"  
  
Hutch regarded them dubiously. "I don't think you should try it, Starsk. That's going to put a strain on...."  
  
"Strain-schmain," the other interrupted impatiently, "l'm fine."  
  
Before Hutch could stop him, he had taken two running steps and a jump, grasped the rings and hauled himself up. "See... that's..." With an agonized gasp he dropped like a stone, to lie limp at Hutch's feet.  
  
"Had to be a smart ass, didn't you?" Hutch admonished. "Never listen, do you?" He went to one knee and helped the stricken man to sit up. "Bet that hurts, huh?"  
  
A stream of invective that would have done a marine proud was the only reply to that. He broke off moments later with another gasp. "Oh, my God."  
  
"It hurts," Hutch nodded wisely. Deftly he probed the already stiffening muscles, ignoring the winces and howls this elicited. "I don't think anything's torn, but you really should be checked over by a doctor. Come on, I'll take you over to see Dr. Sullivan. He should be open pretty soon. Think you can make it?"  
  
Starsky nodded miserably and endured the well-earned chastisement all the way across town. The muscles had not been torn, only badly strained, but he'd learned his lesson and never again tried to rush the pace of his training schedule. It made for a healthier - if grumpier - Starsky all the way around.  
  
Conner ran his police department far less formally than did Los Angeles. With fewer than twenty men to coordinate, he could afford to be less rigid in structure and schedule. This allowed him to juggle work arrangements so that each man could be used to his fullest potential. Conner exercised this prerogative in assigning Hutch a wide variety of tasks, from answering reports of theft and disturbance to walking a beat when Neil needed a fill in.  
  
At such times, Starsky would hunt his friend up and join him on the routine patrols, waiting patiently while Hutch checked out security at the various establishments around town, his own eyes missing nothing. Then they would walk together through the darkened streets, ever vigilant for trouble. Sometimes they would talk softly, but more often they would go for long stretches saying nothing, content in each other's company and comfortable with the opportunity to guard each other again.  
  
Though this violated regulations, Conner made no objection to this routine; he gave his newest men their heads in this, allowing them the freedom to work matters out between them, reweaving old patterns and ties, and formulating new ones more conducive to their work in this alien environment. A shrewd man, Conner knew he couldn't go wrong by allowing these men the latitude they needed. After all, he was starting with the two best cops on the LAPD. Let them adjust a bit and he'd match his new acquisitions against any police team in the country.  
  
About a month after Hutch had officially joined the Langston Police Department, Starsky began to show up as well, busying himself around the office, familiarizing himself with the files and generally making himself out a useful commodity. Hutch had to laugh at this change in his partner from a man who swore he hated paperwork only a little less than the lowest form of vermin, to the helpful, dedicated perfectionist, typing and sorting with all the diligence of Perry Mason's own Delia Street. Hutch found this no end amusing.  
  
"Hey, Starsk," he'd called one morning after an exceptionally large stack of files had neatly disappeared into a cabinet. "Would you like to take a little shorthand, too?" He patted his knee while making little kissy noises.  
  
Starsky flushed and uttered something profane, causing two uniformed patrolmen lounging nearby to burst out laughing.  
  
"He shore do look real purty bendin' over them files, don't he?" one drawled, looking Starsky up and down. "Wonder if he has good legs, too?"  
  
"Stuff it, Murphy," Starsky growled good-naturedly. "And you, partner, if you intend for any of those reports you're working so hard on to ever see the light of day again.."  
  
"Okay, okay," Hutch held up a placating hand, "Man, but you're so touchy these days!"  
  
Starsky slammed the file drawer shut, rattling the baskets stacked neatly on top. "I'm bored... as usual. If I don't get back on the street soon...."  
  
"I know how you feel." The other uniform, Schmidt, nodded sympathetically. "Broke my leg a couple years ago and had to ride a desk for four months. Went out 'a my mind."  
  
Hutch ruffled his friend's hair playfully. "Hang on, ya old fire horse. The time's coming." So Starsky hung on. Under Hutch's tutelage he exercised and walked - then ran, his health and strength gradually returning in good measure. Even Hutch benefited from working out with him, dropping the extra weight he'd been carrying and regaining the trim physique he'd always been so proud of.  
  
Finally the day arrived for which Starsky had waited seemingly a lifetime.  
  
"All right, David, I'm through. You can put your shirt back on."  
  
Starsky waited, but Dr. Jack Sullivan, a handsome, silver-haired gentleman in his early 50's, remained impervious to the air of expectant tension in the room and simply continued to scribble in a scuffed old notebook.  
  
"Well?" Starsky prodded, patience wearing out.  
  
Sullivan's pen crossed one more "t" before he looked up, frowning. "Hmmm? 'Well' what?"  
  
In an unconvincing show of nonchalance, Starsky slipped his shirt across his shoulders before asking the question that just contemplating caused his heart to beat a rapid tattoo. "How am I?"  
  
Sullivan's brow cleared. "How are you? Oh, you mean did I qualify you for active duty yet?"  
  
"Yes," Starsky gritted through clenched teeth, "did you qualify me for active duty yet?"  
  
Sullivan chuckled, fully enjoying his moment. "Well, as a matter of fact..."  
  
Doc!"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Y-yes?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"YES!" Eyes shining, Starsky grabbed the older man, enthusiastically dancing him around the room. "Wha-HOO!" Releasing the doctor to collapse into a conveniently placed chair, Starsky bounded from the room, buttoning his shirt as he went. "I love ya. Doc!" he called over his shoulder, leaving the stunned man still gaping at him from the corner.  
  
Starsky literally ran - full out, arms pumping, feet slapping ran - the three blocks to the police station. He skidded to a halt just inside the door and peered around wildly, panting from the exertion. "HUTCH!"  
  
Hutchinson dashed from Conner's office, eyes wide with alarm. "Starsky! What happened?" Four strides brought him across the room before Starsky even had opportunity to draw a breath. He grasped the shorter man by the shoulders, giving him a shake. "What's wrong?"  
  
Whatever Hutch must have expected, it certainly wasn't for Starsky to throw himself into his arms in a wild hug. "I made it!"  
  
"You made what?"  
  
"Whadda ya mean 'what'?" Starsky's smile widened to include the several other officers gazing curiously at the strange - to say the least - tableau. "The doc cleared me. I'm a street cop again! "  
  
It took a moment for this to sink in, then the room exploded into spontaneous cheers and backslapping. Hutch grabbed his friend in a huge bear hug, lifting him clear off the floor. "You made it!"  
  
Starsky returned the hug enthusiastically, then pulled back, face flushed and eyes aglow, to lock gazes with the joy-filled ones of his friend. "You mean we made it," he whispered for Hutch's ears alone. "We." We ...we... we...  
  
Heart singing. Hutch raised his voice to the office, but included the entire world. "Yo, everybody, party tonight at Mario's. Drinks are on me."  
  
"Whoa." Starsky raised his own voice even louder. "Drinks are on his partner. You're going to have to get used to the fact that, after all this time, the 'Dynamic Duet' rides again!"  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 8

Langston, Oregon had started life over a century ago as a bustling mining town nestled amid the breathtaking panorama of the Cascades. After the mines dried up, most of the town's populace had moved on to other towns, other mines, but several hardy pioneers, enchanted by the sheer majesty of their surroundings, had chosen to stay on and carve a civilized niche in the wilderness.  
  
Up until twenty years ago, Langston had been a quaint, quiet little place. Most of the townspeople had worked either in Boyd's Sawmill, located just outside of town, or ran the little stores and shops dotting the main thoroughfare. Everyone knew everyone else. It was peaceful, serene and practically crime free.  
  
Then Ben Cage arrived. Cage was a developer with a sharp eye for real estate - not as it was, but as it would be with a little long-range effort and a lot of money sunk into it. Cage had looked at quiet little Langston in the future tense, and envisioned vacation homes, ski slopes and multi- million dollar acreage ripe for the plucking.  
  
Twenty years later Cage's effort and money had been rewarded a thousand times over. The slopes of Mt. Carahdras were ideal for skiing; the new lodge catered to the tastes of skiers and nonskiers alike. Bars, pubs, and nightclubs sprang up seemingly overnight, and only vigorous and immediate zoning legislation had prevented Langston from resembling downtown Las Vegas in very short order.  
  
Control was still possible, however, because Langston had not yet been "discovered" by the mainstream tourists. The people who trekked here year after year for the fishing, hunting and skiing tended, for the most part, to be the same ones come back repeatedly. Their ranks were swelling slowly, though, and one day Langston would take its place among such legends and Tahoe and Sun Valley. Not yet though. There was a long way to go before that happened.  
  
Although it was customary procedure for the uniformed officers to handle routine patrols and for the detectives to be assigned the actual investigative work, there were often assignments involving patrol work for the detectives as well.  
  
Both Starsky and Hutchinson relished the chance, as it gave them the opportunity to get to know the town on a deeper, more intimate level, much as they had their beat in Los Angeles. Conner agreed, and even thought it a good idea to increase responsibilities in that direction for Summerall and Cranmer, who appreciated the gesture not at all.  
  
"I worked fifteen years in San Fran to get out of uniform," Summerall had complained bitterly. "How long did it take these kids? Three years? Four? And here I am right back where I started, gold shield or no."  
  
Patrols took them to all sections of the town, from the expensive chateaux clinging precariously to the side of the mountains to the shabby bars and shacks servicing the town's poorer populace in the section commonly known as "the Bowery." Here, the saloons usually consisted of dirty, unpainted interiors housing the trouble-makers and misfits that seemed to inhabit every town no matter how small. Rough lumberjacks mingled with those who made their living by less-than-honorable methods in these small establishments, all able to purchase liquor, sex and even drugs under one convenient roof. Occasionally the tourists would "slum" here, innocent lambs to the slaughter. They usually left quickly, poorer if wiser. And, of course, there was the ski resort itself. Not a large concern, but comfortable and prosperous.  
  
These extremes made up the new "beat" for Detective Sergeants David M. Starsky and Kenneth C. Hutchinson. Smaller, but perhaps not quite as different a beat as they had expected.  
  
Working as partners again took a great deal of re-adjustment for the two detectives. At first there was an unusual shyness and even a lack of confidence in themselves, although not in each other. Slowly, that same old empathy began to re-establish itself, and the trust, which had never wavered, blossomed forth, and instead of two separate individuals, the team of Starsky and Hutchinson was a unit - whole once again.  
  
For Hutch, who had been paired with several of the other officers both in Langston and before, in L.A., it was as if a part of himself which had been lost was back, leaving him complete, Starsky confided a similar feeling.  
  
"When I was sitting there knowing you were out on the streets with some stranger, someone you didn't know and couldn't trust, it was as if part of me was stuck out there too. Kind of naked, you know?"  
  
"Do I ever," Hutch agreed with feeling, "It's not as if Neil doesn't have some good men working for him, but...."  
  
"Me 'n thee, hub?" Starsky asked, eyes shining.  
  
"You got it, partner."  
  
In a growing tourist town, there was rarely a dearth of cases for the detectives to work on. Everything from muggings and domestic disputes to cats up a tree; they handled them all with the same dedication and intensity which had made them the best team the L.A.P.D. had ever had.  
  
Conner broached the subject with them one evening after dinner. "I hear you boys busted Jerry Stevens this morning. What was he doing, getting loud with his wife again?"  
  
"Drunk and disorderly," Starsky answered him. "Took a swing at some guy named... um...." He cocked an inquiring eye at his partner.  
  
"Ed Frieberg," Hutch replied, sugaring his coffee.  
  
Starsky nodded. "Frieberg. Right. The victim wants to press charges. "  
  
Conner groaned. "Again?" The bigger man leaned forward, idly shifting some files spread across the coffee table. "Those two go at it tooth and nail an average of twice a week. Jerry always picks a fight and Ed has him arrested. No big deal."  
  
No, it's not, is it?" Starsky murmured, introspective.  
  
Conner caught the same look mirrored on Hutch's face and groaned softly to himself. "Oh, boy," he sighed. "Dave, Ken." He waited until he had their attention returned from the not-so-long ago days when these two were breaking cases most cops- himself included - only dreamed about getting.  
  
"I got your evaluations in this morning from the L.A.P.D. and from those qualifying trials you went through last week." He flipped open a folder. "As of now, you're the two best shots on the L.C.P.D. Matter of fact, you beat out last year's 'winner' by a good five percent."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Starsky asked, interested. "Who was that?"  
  
"Me."  
  
"Ooops." Starsky shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry."  
  
Conner grinned lopsidedly. "Don't worry about it, kid. There's still next year." He returned to the file. "It says you two have been partners for seven years... joined the Academy at the same time. That where you met?"  
  
"Yeah." Hutch set his cup carefully on the coffee table, then rose and stretched, catlike. "Ran into this fuzzy-headed idiot in the gym one morning before classes. He was going a couple of rounds with the bag. It was really pathetic." Hutch shook his head pityingly, ignoring his partner's offended yelp. "After a while I offered to show him a couple of moves. Taught him everything he knows."  
  
Starsky, who had been listening in wide-eyed indignation, sputtered a bit at this last. "You taught who?!" He sneered. "You tell a pretty good fairy tale, partner, but you don't really expect--?"  
  
"Tut, tut." Hutch held up a hand. "No sense denying it, Starsk. Without me, you'd've never made it through hand-to-hand."  
  
"I'll mano-a-mano you!" With a graceful pounce, Starsky snagged his partner in a headlock and began to slowly force him to the floor.  
  
"Wanna play rough, eh?" Hutch grunted.  
  
He dropped limply, throwing Starsky momentarily off balance. Before he had time to recover, Hutch had slipped one arm around his waist and twisted, while simultaneously sweeping his partner's feet out from under him. Starsky hit the floor, lightly rolling back to his feet in one smooth movement and readying for another attack.  
  
"I got five bucks on the cutie with the curls!" Kathy Connor stepped daintily between them and deposited a fresh pot of coffee on the table before turning back to the combatants. "Oh, do go on with what you were doing."  
  
"Sorry, Kath," Hutch apologized. "Got to keep a tighter leash on my partner, here."  
  
"You know what they say about paybacks, partner." Starsky brushed a curl back from his eyes. "Five bucks, hub?" He shot Hutch a smug look. "You see, even Kathy knows I could take you out any day."  
  
"Oh, yes. Besides, I always bet on the underdog." Kathy smiled sweetly as Hutch burst out laughing. "I'll get some cake to wash down that coffee." She disappeared back into the kitchen.  
  
Conner went back to his file, reading silently for some while. The other two waited uncomfortably for him to finish. Conner finally looked up, studying them one by one with unfeigned respect. "I have to admit. I'm impressed." He tapped the folder with one finger. "According to this, you two heroes had more felony arrests on your record before you were thirty than most cops get in their entire careers."  
  
Hutch, fair skin flushed, shrugged deprecatingly. "Had a talent for stepping into situations, Neil."  
  
"And tearing the guts outta them," Starsky added with a grin.  
  
"I'll say." Conner caught the triumphant look which passed between the two men. "Felt good, didn't it?"  
  
"I'll say," Starsky echoed, including him in his smile.  
  
"And then there was Langston." The grins faded, replaced by puzzled frowns.  
  
"What are you talking about, Neil?" Hutch asked, lowering himself into the arm chair.  
  
"Look, fellas, I'm going be blunt about this." Conner leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. "This evaluation makes you two look like a combination of Superman, Sam Spade and Wonder Woman all rolled into one."  
  
"Wonder Woman?" Starsky mouthed to Hutch. Hutch ignored him.  
  
"Let's face it," Neil went on, "you two have spent the last seven - eight years of your lives handling cases that most of us country boys only read about in the newspapers. I can even count the number of times I've had to pull my piece. Almost never been shot at - not since 'Nam, anyway."  
  
"Sounds pretty good to us right about now. Chief," Hutch commented softly, looking at his partner.  
  
"Yeah. A good deal." Conner shifted, sitting back against the cushions. "No danger, no big busts, no.... Well, you get the idea."  
  
"I'm not sure I do," Hutch said. "What are you getting at?"  
  
Conner studied them again before answering. "You two lived a fast, exciting life back in L.A. You pushed hard and you came through with the heavy collars. Lot of prestige to go with it, wasn't there?"  
  
"We weren't in it for the prestige." Starsky paced before the fireplace, then turned to Conner, eyes sharp and angry. "We worked hard to keep the scum out of our beat. We put away those who deserved it. We were needed there." "And you don't think you are here?"  
  
The anger drained away and Starsky dropped his eyes. "It's not that we're not needed, Neil," Hutch spoke up. "We just need to... adjust. It's different here."  
  
Conner jerked his head toward the folder in his lap. "Do you know what your psychological profiles say?"  
  
Hutch blinked at the seeming non sequitur. "What?" "Psychological profile."  
  
Neil removed a sheet of paper from the folder. "This report is signed by Dr. Elsa Marsden, police psychiatrist, L.A.P.D. Know her?"  
  
Starsky grimaced. "You know we do. What about it?"  
  
Conner held the paper up. "Says here that.... Well, let me hit the highlights here. Ambitious... completely dedicated to their beliefs and their jobs... mavericks, no respect for rank... totally independent, except...."  
  
"Except?" Hutch prodded.  
  
Conner paused, again referring to the sheet. "Except when it comes to each other. Then it's a whole different ball game." He made a little throw-away motion with his left hand. "Anyway, the point I'm making is that I'm wondering if you two are going to be able to adjust to this kind of life. We don't get many major busts, and there's very little excitement."  
  
"What about that deal out at the... where was it?... the Banyon place?" Starsky asked, affecting a casual pose with one elbow on the mantle. "I'd call that 'exciting,' wouldn't you?"  
  
Conner laughed softly. "What do you think, that's an everyday thing?"  
  
"Summerall and Cranmer handled themselves well enough," Hutch pointed out. "Didn't seem like their first time."  
  
"No, not the first time, but there haven't been all that many." The big man replaced the papers into the file and closed it firmly. "They're good cops, Kenny, but think back - you'll remember it was you who called the shots in that situation." Hutch faltered before the other's steady gaze. Conner plowed on, not waiting for a reply. "I heard it all from Lou. He said he and Jake moved in well enough - they were both in the Army, you know - but that you.... How did Lou put it? It was as if you were in your element. He said you seemed to be almost enjoying yourself."  
  
"It's not... that, exactly," Hutch replied slowly. "It's a rush, sure. The adrenaline, the... danger. But enjoy it? No. I can't say I enjoy risking my life." He caught Starsky's eye and the look which passed between them flashed bright. "I sure don't enjoy risking my partner's."  
  
Conner settled back, indefinably satisfied with the answer. "Fair enough. But you're used to that 'rush,' as you put it. Are you going to be able to give that up? Settle down into routine peacekeeping? As I said, Langston's pretty mundane."  
  
"And boring. Yes, I know. But we've got to try, Neil." Hutch sighed, a ghost of the weldschmerz that had plagued him in L.A. touching his face. "The 'prestige' and 'excitement' got to be a little costly for my tastes."  
  
"My, such somber faces!" Kathy re-entered the room, carrying a tray laden with dessert. "What happened to the happy smiles I left just five minutes ago?"  
  
"They followed you around, Kathy," Starsky bowed gallantly, "and returned with you."  
  
"Oh, Lord, it's shovel time," Kathy groaned, then smiled. "But, boy, do I ever love it! Dig in, boys - tomorrow we diet, tonight we party!"  
  
*** 


	9. Chapter 9

Patrol in Langston consisted of a variety of tasks. As in any town, there were the usual domestic disputes, disturbances and generally minor infractions of the law. Most involved either the tourists in town for the expressed purpose of "having a good time," or the habitual troublemakers of the Bowery, with whom the police were often on a first name basis.  
  
Starsky and Hutchinson regularly pulled patrol duty on the weekends, particularly now as the hunting season brought in the roughest of the transient crowd. There was the usual assortment of drunk and disorderly arrests now spiced with the added stimulant of having to deal with a group that was nearly 100 percent armed to the teeth. At least, when they entered town they were. All hunters were required to check their guns with the L.C.P.D. upon crossing the city limits, but this law was difficult to enforce with total certainty. Especially here on the outskirts, trunks and back seats often concealed heavy rifles loaded for large game. Thus, extra caution was displayed when making arrests, and even routine traffic stops rated additional back-up whenever possible. But on the whole, it was the same men who flocked to Langston County year after year. Some of these men, however, Langston could have done without.  
  
"Looks like a washout here," Starsky grumbled, climbing wearily back into the car. It had been a long day. "Unless we can shake Brighton's alibi, we aren't going to be able to pin this burglary on him."  
  
"That wife of his is pretty convincing," Hutch agreed. "But if we can--"  
  
"Sierra-Bravo, Sierra-Bravo, come in please."  
  
Hutch picked up the microphone attached to his dash. "Sierra-Bravo. What is it, Emily?"  
  
Emily Church's dulcet tones caressed both men even through the imperfect medium of the police radio. No matter how often they were heard, they never failed to give either man a very warm rush. The warm contralto seemed to almost physically reach out and stroke - a more beautiful voice neither man had ever heard. Odd that it should belong to a grey-haired, over-weight grandmother of five, who always looked as if she'd slept in her clothes.  
  
"Trouble coming your way, Hutch. Green Chevy, license plate MLU-375, headed south on Route 27. Got two cowboys in there taking potshots at bystanders, and you boys are closest. Subjects are armed, approach with extreme caution. Backup is en route, ETA ten minutes."  
  
"Sierra-Bravo, we are responding." Hutch clapped the mars light to the roof of the Ford and hit the siren.  
  
Starsky shoved it into a tight U-turn, headed at top speed down the dirt road they'd been following to reach Brighton's little shack. Route 27 was two miles farther on, a two-lane highway which cut a torturous path through the mountains before merging with busy Route 5 some thirty miles away. Route 27 was miraculously clear of traffic. Starsky braked to a halt at the edge of the road. "Which way d'ya think they are?"  
  
"That way." Hutch pointed towards town. "They couldn't have made it this far since we got the--"  
  
The sound of an approaching car cut him short. Starsky pulled out onto the highway, effectively blocking the road. "Here we go."  
  
Then they saw it -- an older model green Chevy bearing down on them at high speed. Both detectives dove from the Ford, Hutch praying loudly that the drunken driver would stop before ramming his car. His prayer was answered -- barely. With a screech of tires, the Chevy skidded to a halt mere inches from the battered Ford.  
  
Hutch breathed a sigh of relief before racing to the passenger's side. Magnum drawn. "Get out of the car with your hands up," he commanded tersely.  
  
The Chevy contained two hunters, obviously having lifted more than their fair share of brew, but not so intoxicated as to want to risk spooking two grim men carrying guns. They obeyed slowly, hands in the clear.  
  
"This way-" Hutch threw open the passenger door, stepping back several feet Starsky covered the men from the driver's side while they exited, then rounded the car to join his partner.  
  
"Come on, come on . Morrie." Starsky read the name emblazoned on the filthy cap. "You know the routine. " He yanked Morrie, a bearded bruiser weighing in at least 240 in his stocking feet, around roughly and shoved him across the hood of the car. He holstered his Beretta, giving the man a rapid, thorough search. "This one's clean." Hutch nodded, watchful eyes never leaving the prisoners.  
  
"Hey, now, you ain't got nuthin' on us," Morrie blustered, alcoholic courage adding volume to his already too-loud voice + "And you ain't takin' me in, neither."  
  
He turned unexpectedly and swung at Starsky, using his backhand as a club. The smaller man nimbly stepped back out of the way and slipped into a defensive kata ready for the next blow.  
  
It never came. Quick as a flash. Hutch had holstered his weapon and closed the distance between them. "No," he muttered, almost a plea.  
  
As Morrie turned to face this new opponent. Hutch swung into action. A quick right to the stomach doubled the big man up; Hutch brought his knee up and his clasped fists down, catching Morrie's face and neck simultaneously. Morrie dropped like the proverbial rock.  
  
Starsky hesitated, stunned into immobility by his partner's actions. He unfroze when he noticed the smaller prisoner trying to slip away from the battling duo. The man broke suddenly, heading for the woods at a respectable clip. He didn't make it twenty yards.  
  
"Uh-uhn-UH!" Starsky snagged the man by the collar, yanking him around and to the ground by the simple expedient of sweeping his feet from under him. Within seconds the man had been cuffed, searched and hauled back to the car.  
  
Meanwhile, Hutch finished cuffing his own prisoner, then dragged him roughly to his feet. Seconds later a black-and-white screeched to a halt and two men leaped out. Hutch shoved Morrie towards one of the uniformed men, who expertly fielded him into the patrol car; his partner took the other prisoner from Starsky.  
  
"Schmidt, Murphy, take care of these two, will you?" Hutch asked, brushing back a strand of blond hair. "These are the two Buffalo Bills who tried to shoot up the town."  
  
"Come on, pal, watch your head." The smaller prisoner joined Morrie in the back seat, cursing loudly and in at least two languages. Murphy shook his head and turned back to Hutch. "Got quite a mouth on him, don't he?" he remarked with something approaching admiration. "I used to know this Marine recruiter who could cuss like that. She was a pretty little thing, too." He chuckled. "We're heading in anyway; we'll book 'cm for you and you can finish the paperwork when you come in."  
  
"Thanks, Murph. We'll be in later to file the report." Hutch waited until the patrol car had disappeared around a bend before turning to his partner- "We still ought to see Mrs..." He trailed off at the expression on his friend's face. "What is it, Starsky?" The expression - Anger? Surprise? - faded into a neutral mask. "Nothing. Let's go see Mrs. Brighton long as we're out here." He climbed into the driver's seat of the Ford and refused to say another word on the subject the rest of the afternoon.  
  
***  
  
Hutch groaned and settled heavily onto the sofa. The warmth from the crackling fire seeped into weary muscles still tense from the day. Tired. He rubbed the back of his neck hoping to relieve some of the strain there, then twisted, hearing the bones crackle. He decided a beer would go over very well then, and made to stand again, albeit reluctantly.  
  
The slamming of the front door gave him pause. "Hutch, we've got to talk," he demanded, entering the room and tossing his coat on a convenient chair.  
  
The blond roused himself, more than willing to be distracted, sank back into the armchair with a groan. "What about?"  
  
"About this arrest we just made."  
  
A straight-forward enough arrest. Hutch thought and said as much. Starsky agreed instantly. "That's the point, Hutch. It was something we've done hundreds of times. Only..." He faltered before the blond's puzzled look. "Look, man, you screwed up big time on that bust." He spread his hands apologetically but not before Hutch's puzzlement had transmuted into astonishment mixed with a kind of wary anger. "If this is your idea of a joke, Starsk, I'm telling you right now it's not funny."  
  
Starsky settled himself on the sofa and sighed deeply. When he spoke, it was softly, as if to himself. "You don't even realize what you did, do you?"  
  
"Why don't you tell me?"  
  
The other swallowed and forced his eyes up again. "Do you realize you turned your back on a possibly armed and dangerous criminal this afternoon?"  
  
Hutch frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"When Morrie swung at me this afternoon, what did you do?"  
  
"What did...?" Light dawned. "Oh."  
  
Starsky nodded solemnly. "You didn't even think about it, Hutch! You just... dived in. We hadn't even searched that other guy yet!"  
  
Hutch shifted uncomfortably. "Screwed up pretty bad, didn't No answer. "Starsky, I'm sorry about that. But you could have said something at the time. We've both done it enough in the past. And Morrie had to be stopped."  
  
"You still don't understand, do you?" the other retorted, throwing up his hands.  
  
Hutch's irritation flamed. "Then make me understand.  
  
"You.... Oh, man." Starsky ran a hand through his unruly curls. "Okay, I'll spell it out for you in plain English. You ignored an unsearched, possibly armed and dangerous criminal to jump into my fight."  
  
"The guy had to be stopped," Hutch insisted stubbornly.  
  
Blue eyes flashed. "I was stopping him. It was me he was attacking! "  
  
"But--"  
  
"But nothing." Starsky stabbed a finger at the other man, driving home his point. "You didn't even stop to consider that I might be able to take this guy. I could have, you know," he added more gently. "We were lucky this time because that other guy wasn't armed, but if he had been, you'd be dead right now. You'd be dead because of me and I don't think I appreciate that concept."  
  
Hutch stood up and crossed to the hearth, mulling the words. He paced once while a pair of determined blue eyes bored into his back. "You're right," he said suddenly. "You're absolutely right. "  
  
Starsky blinked at him. "Just like that? No arguments?" He sounded disappointed.  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far." Hutch returned to the sofa but sitting instead on the low coffee table opposite the other man. "You're right in that I over-reacted to that guy threatening you. Dr. Marsden said I would. I don't want to lose you again, buddy."  
  
Starsky sighed deeply. "I know. But we can't work like this, Hutch. I won't risk you putting your life on the line every time it looks like I'm in some kind of trouble." He brought his clenched fist down on his thigh with a little smack.  
  
Hutch chuckled softly. "We're starting to sound like a couple of old maids."  
  
That won him a half-smile. "Really."  
  
Hutch patted his arm. "We can work it out," he said confidently.  
  
"Before or after one of us gets blown away?"  
  
Anger flared, darkening Hutchinson's sky blue eyes. "That was a cheap shot, Starsky, and you know it."  
  
"It's not and you know it," the other returned evenly. "It's the whole point of this discussion."  
  
That set Hutch back a moment. "Okay, yeah, maybe it is. But Dr. Marsden did say this would happen."  
  
Starsky shifted around until he could rest his back against the arm of the sofa, his expression very thoughtful indeed. "You spent a lot of time talking to her, didn't you?"  
  
Hutch squirmed uncomfortably. "You're off the point."  
  
Dark curls bobbed in a defiant shake. "Not really. The point is whether or not you're going to be able to handle the possibility of my getting hurt... or killed again. If you can't, Hutch...." There was no need to finish the statement; the meaning hung heavy in the air between them.  
  
The brand new clock on the mantle ticked off a full sixty seconds during which each man maintained a pensive silence. Hutch picked up a newspaper from the walnut end table Kathy had so painstakingly selected from the inventory of Ye Olde Antique Shoppe. He sat folding and unfolding it, his eyes unseeingly scanning the headlines. Finally he replaced the paper and raised his head.  
  
"Starsk, do you remember back when I had that trouble with Monk? Do you remember how you were after that?"  
  
Starsky grinned crookedly. "Was I as bad as you are now?"  
  
Hutch rolled his eyes comically. "Were you ever! You barely let me go to the john by myself. But you got over it. Sometimes it takes time, that's all."  
  
"How much time?" the dark-haired man asked, resolve wavering. "Because we sure can't go on like this." He grinned crookedly. "You're going to have to let me fight my own battles sooner or later."  
  
"I don't know, buddy." Hutch laid one hand on his friend's knee, squeezing tight- "But I hope you're going to give me a chance on this and not write me off too soon."  
  
Starsky covered the hand with one of his own. "What do you suggest?"  
  
"Couple months?" Blue eyes fixed blue with a hopeful look. "We'll get used to working together again, maybe get a little confidence back? I won't screw up like that again, Starsk."  
  
"I guess we gotta try, don't we?" Starsky smiled, lighting the room with his warmth. "I sure don't want to go through the trouble of training a new partner, after all."  
  
"Training .what?" Hutch sputtered, indignant. "It was me who.."  
  
They hadn't argued like that in a long while and it sure felt good.  
  
*** 


	10. Chapter 10

Every other Friday night, Starsky and Hutch drew extra patrol duty in the Bowery. On those nights the men who worked in the lumber camp twenty miles farther into the mountain received their paychecks and immediately headed into Langston proper to spend them. They were more than ready to raise merry hell after being cut off from civilization for fourteen days at a stretch.  
  
On such nights, Neil assigned the detectives to patrol with the regulars, answering calls well into the morning hours, until even the toughest reveler retired rather than face the bright morning sun. There was usually more than enough trouble to break the monotony of patrol on these nights, much of it gracing Sergeants Starsky and Hutchinson on a regular basis.  
  
"Sierra-Bravo, Sierra-Bravo, come in please."  
  
Hutch swallowed a mouthful of coffee and reached for the mike. "This is Hutchinson. Go ahead, Emily."  
  
"We've got a 415 at Spencer's Bar on Thurber Street. Back up in en route."  
  
"Roger, Emily. Zebra... I mean, Sierra-Bravo responding."  
  
Starsky grinned and shoved the big Ford into gear. "Old habits die hard, eh?"  
  
"Don t knock it, partner," Hutch returned evenly. "At least this time we're not a number."  
  
"Only a matter of time. Pretty soon--"  
  
"You just missed your turn."  
  
"Darn." Starsky backed up the car. "Who'd'a thought it'd be harder to learn the streets of this little hamlet than L.A.?"  
  
"You haven't even done duty on those backwoods lanes yet," Hutch grumbled. "Man could get lost for years back there."  
  
"Terrific. Hey, there it is."  
  
Spencer's turned out to be one of those grimy, back-alley holes-in-the- wall, interchangeable in any city, town or ghetto in the country. Thick smoke swirled in an atmosphere ripe with the smells of stale liquor and unwashed bodies. A gathering place for the lower levels of humanity here in the "Bowery" section of Langston.  
  
Hostile eyes followed the two men's progress as they slowly worked their way across the room. Their goal was the raised voices emanating from the far corner. No one made a move to stop them.  
  
The crowd parted, showing three men circling a fourth much like a pack of wild dogs circle prey. The largest, a red-haired giant of a man, reached out, backhanding the fourth against a wall. "I'll teach you to make a pass at my girl." He swung again, catching the man a brutal blow to the mouth, drawing blood.  
  
His two companions fingered the hunting knives strapped at their waists. "Hey, Walt," one called, "why don't we make sure he don't never make a pass at no girl?" He laughed. "Ah know just where to cut." Walt smiled and drew his own knife.  
  
"Hold it!" Starsky stepped through the tight circle of onlookers hedging the one-sided battle and put himself between Walt and his victim. "Police. You're under arrest."  
  
Walt stared at the smaller man in surprise. For fifteen years he'd had a reputation in this town as a dangerous man, proudly touting his reputation as the Meanest Mother This Side of the Cascades. Even the police treated him with a certain touch of respect, acknowledging his size and vitriolic nature. But there was not even a trace of caution in the slender, dark- haired man who approached -- only open challenge.  
  
Walt bared his teeth in a feral smile. "You're not going to take me in, piggy." Slowly he re-sheathed the knife, then unbuckled it at his waist, dropping it on the floor. "We used to play a game in the lumber camps, kid. You win, I come quietly. I win, I beat the crap out of you. Think you can handle it?"  
  
Starsky grinned his own wolfish grin. "I'm gonna enjoy this." He flashed a look at Hutch, the message clearer than any words could have been. Stay out of it. Hutch, the look demanded silently. He's mine.  
  
Obviously, Walt's two comrades had decided that they'd stood by long enough. Both moved forward. The first reached for the aforementioned hunting knife. The other stretched lower towards his boot. An ankle holster?  
  
"No." Hutch's big Magnum appeared like magic in his hand, freezing the two aggressors in their tracks. "Uh-uh-unh," the blond chided gently. "Wouldn't want to put holes in those nice new jackets, now would we?"  
  
One look into those arctic blue eyes decided the matter on the spot. Neither man chose to risk the open menace in that deadly glare. "Turn around and rest your hands on the bar. Come on, spread 'cm!"  
  
The men obeyed sullenly, tensed for the smallest lapse in his attention. There was none. Hutch kicked one man behind the ankle, spreading his legs farther apart. He watched them carefully, his awareness of his friend's actions only peripheral. Powerful muscles tensed. Hutch stood still... and waited.  
  
Starsky warily circled the bigger man, keeping just out of reach of those ham-sized fists. Though out-classed in terms of sheer power, he had the advantages of speed and agility and the knowledge to use them effectively - an even match, indeed.  
  
Walt stepped into range, maneuvering Starsky into position. They traded blows several minutes, each designed to do little more than to test the other's abilities. Walt feinted left, then a right -- a powerhouse swing that would have put the smaller man away had it connected.  
  
It didn't. Starsky danced lightly out of the way, using the opportunity while the other was off balance to deliver a left of his own to Walt's pugnacious jaw. Momentarily dazed, Walt swung again wildly, missing the dark head by inches. Again Starsky used the opening, landing a solid punch - a jarring right to the mid-section. Walt doubled over with a whoosh of escaping air. Starsky closed the distance, intending to follow up, but Walt recovered far quicker than his appearance would have suggested.  
  
One meaty fist bunched the front of Starsky's shirt, pulling him close, while the other delivered two powerful blows, the first to Starsky's unprotected ribs and the second to his stomach. The dull thuds registering the hits were loud in the suddenly silent room.  
  
By the bar, Hutch winced sympathetically but maintained his own guard as did his prisoners, who stood tensed, awaiting their chance.  
  
Starsky gasped, his face creased with the agony of his battered mid- section. Desperately he brought his hands up, palms turned inward, and clapped the larger man sharply across the ears. The pain of rupturing eardrums caused Walt to release him instantly.  
  
Starsky dove in without hesitation* he shoved Walt back against the wail, bracing him there with his own body. Then he grasped the bigger man's throat - larynx, trachea and carotids - with one hand in the commonly termed the 'Marine Corps' choke. Walt clawed at the steely fingers for less than sixty seconds before sliding to the floor unconscious.  
  
The room had maintained its tense hush until now, the bar's patrons avidly drinking in the spectacle, waiting for their champion to dispose of yet another bothersome cop. A stunned silence reigned long seconds after Walt had slipped to the floor, broken only by Starsky's painful gasps for air. But now a murmuring began, here and there, phrases becoming clearly audible.  
  
"Hey, he beat Walt!"  
  
"I don't believe it! That guy took out...."  
  
"I never thought I'd see...."  
  
There was as much admiration as resentment among these men; coming from hardy pioneer stock, they respected toughness, and Starsky - and by association, Hutchinson - had just ko'd one of their toughest.  
  
Hutch glanced across at his partner, standing there in the midst of a room full of men who would as cheerfully have slipped a knife between his ribs as look at him. He saw the man gasping painfully for air, damp curls hanging limply in his face, but nothing could hide the defiant tilt to Starsky's jaw as he faced down the hostile crowd.  
  
For the briefest instant, their eyes met. Hutch's full of concern and Starsky's with a savage, blazing triumph. The tableau froze, time slowed and stopped. For Hutch, the room came into sharp focus, a supernatural clarity that accented every detail, every sensation. He saw - really saw - his partner in that instant, and that was when something - something deep within him - snapped.  
  
A door long closed and locked by his own fear, cracked wide open and everything was as it used to be a lifetime ago. He saw Starsky as he was before Gunther - strong and self-confident and capable. Suddenly Starsky was his partner again - not some fragile spirit to be coddled and defended, but the other half of Hutch's whole. They were one again - a unit. Complete.  
  
A wave of pride swept through Hutch for this man who had fought seemingly impossible odds, clawing his way back from the very edge of death itself to this pinnacle of personal triumph.  
  
Hutch grinned, he couldn't help it. A great weight lifted from his heart, a weight which had been suffocating him for months. The lightness was acceptance and trust; he still worried for his partner's safety - would always fear the day when he would lose his best friend forever. But that day was not yet - could be postponed indefinitely. It was then that Hutch knew they were partners again in the purest, truest sense. Partners. A sweet word and he savored it for a long moment before setting it aside.  
  
Starsky cuffed the unconscious man, then came over to search the two Hutch was guarding and to cuff them. At some point during the process. Murphy and Schmidt must have entered the bar, but the first Hutch knew of them was when Murphy reached out to take one of Walt's arms. "Lemme give ya a hand," he offered, helped to haul Walt up. "Come on, Walt. Wake up, boy." No response. "This guy's really out I "  
  
Hutch grunted assent and helped drag the big man to the waiting Ford. "We'll take him over to Doc Sullivan's, then meet you back at the station."  
  
"Right." Murphy moved off to where his partner was hording the two conscious prisoners into the squad car. "We'll take care of 'cm for you. Sergeant." He winked at Starsky, who was leaning wearily against the fender. "I saw the tail end of that fight. Ya done real good, Dave."  
  
Starsky managed a smile through clenched teeth. "Piece o' cake, " he croaked +  
  
As the squad car moved off. Hutch came over and grasped Starsky's elbow in a supporting grip. "Come on, partner, we'll let Doc Sullivan take a look at you while he's checking out sleeping beauty here."  
  
"Don't need him." Starsky rubbed his abdomen. "Just a couple 'a bruises. Nothing a hot bath won't cure."  
  
Hutch frowned but held his peace. Starsky was really a pain in the butt when it came to looking out for his own health, but he was level-headed enough to see a doctor if he's been badly hurt. "All right, but it you're still hurting tomorrow, you go in, agreed?"  
  
"Sure." A pause. "Hey, Hutch. Thanks."  
  
Hutch looked up into those dancing blue eyes. There was no need whatsoever to ask what Starsky was thanking him for - the rapport between them fair sang its rebirth. Instead Hutch smiled warmly. "Anytime... partner. " *** 


	11. Chapter 11

Tandy had grown up in Seattle, Washington. On her sixteenth birthday, she'd treated herself - with her alcoholic father's welfare check - to a one-way ticket to San Francisco, where she'd quickly learned to support herself on the street. She was a pretty young woman, red-haired and shapely, not spoiled by drugs or vice as yet, and so able to command a high price for her services. For several years she did well, earning a lucrative living for herself and her boyfriend, Adam. Unfortunately, Adam got too used to the finer luxuries of life, including a precious white powder with the ability to grant euphoric self-possession to the user, and the propensity to strip aforementioned user of all his moral and ethical values, and eventually his soul as well.  
  
Tandy had tried cocaine herself for awhile but never allowed herself to become enamored of the thrill, Tandy was a practical, intelligent young woman.  
  
Adam wasn't nearly as intelligent - or as self-controlled; after the third time he beat her up, Tandy left him lying in a drunken stupor and moved out. She eventually ended up - after a series of 'fresh beginnings' - in Langston.  
  
Business was good in Langston for a pretty red-head like Tandy. She kept a low profile, working the bars rather than the streets, earning a decent living and garnering a small reputation as someone who could be trusted - within reason, of course.  
  
One of those people who trusted Tandy was Elizabeth, a young teenager who'd escaped an abusive household only to find herself starving and frightened and alone. After a few bad experiences, Tandy had taken the girl in and gotten her started properly, teaching her how to choose the best tricks out of the crowd and how to avoid being cheated of her rightful pay. Elizabeth took the apartment next to Tandy's in a run-down rooming house. The two women became close; Elizabeth was the first real friend Tandy had ever had.  
  
Tandy trudged wearily toward her apartment; one high heel dangling from her hand, the other -- heel broken -- made little clap-clapping noises on the pavement. Lousy night. Lousy, lousy night. Not only had some stupid oaf of a tourist stiffed her -- her of all people! -- but she'd had a headache all day and was out of aspirin too.  
  
A light in Elizabeth's window shone like a beacon through the gloom of the early dawn. Thank God she was still up. Maybe she had some aspirin to take care of this headache. Unless she was... occupied?  
  
Ah! The door was ajar. Elizabeth would have never left the door open if she'd been entertaining. "Lizzie?" Tandy stuck her head in and peered around myopically. Lordy, she was tired. A tell-tale lump on the bed brought her across the room. Asleep at this hour? "Lizzie, honey?" She rested a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Wake up, honey. I need some.... Oh . my . God!" White knuckles stifled the scream threatening to erupt from her throat. "Elizabeth?!"  
  
Sightless eyes already glazed studied the ceiling unblinkingly. A battered face was barely recognizable as the once-beautiful, child-like countenance that had brought some measure of warmth to Tandy's self-serving existence. Oh, Lizzie.  
  
Tandy screamed and kept on screaming until the blackness rolled in and took her away.  
  
*  
  
Starsky's keen eyes swept the scene, absorbing every detail of the squalid little room. Furniture was minimal, a bed, table, bureau, and two chairs taking up most of the space in the tiny efficiency. The victim had obviously been no kind of a housekeeper: unwashed dishes in the sink and laundry piled in one corner gave the room a dirty, disheveled effect and, here and there, cockroaches boldly forayed into the open in search of food. "Whaddaya got, Schmidt?"  
  
An older man consulted his notes briefly. "White female prostitute, age fifteen, lived at this address six months. Doc says she was beaten to death sometime between two and three last night. Severe internal injuries, several broken bones." Starsky grimaced. "Anyone hear or see anything?"  
  
"Nothing." Schmidt made a throw away gesture with his notebook. "Victim's hands were bound behind her and she was gagged. Couldn't move or scream."  
  
"Terrific." Starsky crossed over to the blanket-covered body, stepping around the photographer imported from nearby Saratoga specifically for the job. "I'll need a Polaroid, Frank. "  
  
"You got it, Sarge."  
  
Starsky lifted one corner of the concealing blanket and gave the body a cursory examination. The girl lay on her back, arms bound behind her, a shapeless, pale mass against the white sheets. The battered face had once been delicate; here and there traces of fine bones and rich coloring could be seen between the bruises. Starsky shook his head at the waste. "Lab boys come up with anything?"  
  
Officer Schmidt left off his examination of the cupboard to shoot him an apologetic look. "Her prints, a few smudges. Nothing useful."  
  
"Hmmm." Starsky studied the bound wrists and gag. "Simple knots." He straightened up as Hutch entered the room and approached the body.  
  
"Anything?" the big blond asked by way of greeting.  
  
"Nah. Hooker, tied up and beaten to death. You?"  
  
Hutch threw up his hands. "Nobody knows anything about last night. But...."  
  
Starsky picked up his ears. "But?"  
  
Hutchinson hesitated, then shrugged. "That girl, Tandy - the one who found the body? She knows something, I' m sure of it."  
  
"But she ain't talking?" Starsky asked, examining the rest of the room in a single sweep.  
  
"Not yet. I'm going to have another little chat with her, see if I can't shake her up a bit." He nodded over his shoulder "That's her - the redhead."  
  
Starsky glanced back, eyes widening in appreciation at the slender, pretty woman peering nervously in the door.... "Wow! That's some looker!"  
  
"Isn't she though?" Hutch pivoted toward the door, catching Tandy's eye. She held the gaze a moment, then retreated with an indifferent toss of her head. Hutch grinned. "She's really something else." He stepped back to allow two men with a gurney through. "How soon before we get a coroner's report?"  
  
Schmidt, who was sifting through dustballs under the bed, spoke up. "Joe, at Saratoga General, works pretty fast. Maybe this afternoon, maybe tomorrow morning." He sneezed. "'S'cuse me. Nuff dirt under here to plant wheat."  
  
Starsky politely passed across a pack of tissues from his pocket, then turned back to his partner. "Doubt we'll find anything out we don't already know. Looks like someone just likes to play rough."  
  
Hutch sighed. "Thought we'd left all this behind in L.A."  
  
"You got trash all over," Starsky commented philosophically. "This is--"  
  
"Hutch, Starsky, look at this." Murphy had been searching the bureau, going through what pitifully few possessions marked the fifteen years the girl had spent on earth. He straightened, holding two objects between thumb and forefinger. One was a grainy snapshot of two women, the other a tattered address book. "This was hidden in the bottom of the drawer. Looks like the girl was acquainted with an old friend of mine."  
  
The picture showed a fragile young woman - the victim as she'd appeared in life - arms twined around a familiar-looking redhead in a low-cut black dress. Both were smiling broadly at the camera.  
  
"So that's what she looked like," Hutch commented softly. "Very pretty. And very young."  
  
Starsky snorted disgustedly. "Too young." Elizabeth Carson did look very young indeed in that photograph -- a fifteen-year-old child who would never have the opportunity to mature into a woman, never have the chance to make something more out of her wasted, pathetic life.  
  
"That's a shame," Hutch said sincerely. "Hey, Murph, which 'old friend are you talking about?"  
  
In answer, the other man pointed to one name scrawled in the address book. "LeRoy Simpson?" Starsky peered over Hutch's shoulder. "You know this guy?"  
  
The uniformed Murphy made a face. "Unfortunately. A real slime ball. Started running girls a couple years ago. Slick s.o.b., too -- knows the ropes. We haven't been able to bust him with anything."  
  
"Yet." Starsky plucked the address book from his partner's fingers and skimmed it rapidly. There were few other entries to consider: a doctor's name, a coupe of local people and one out of-town address they assumed to be her parents. "Not much to go on here. Maybe we ought 'a talk to this Simpson guy first."  
  
"And with Tandy," Hutch agreed.  
  
"Let's talk to her first. She might still be shook up enough to tell us something."  
  
Hutch shrugged his shoulders. "Worth a try."  
  
"Won't you have a seat. Miss...?"  
  
"McKendricks," Tandy supplied, sullenly. She'd never liked cops - hated them since that time in San Francisco when one beat her up and raped her for being slow with his grease money.  
  
Hutch gestured again to the chair, which Tandy reluctantly took. "Miss McKendricks," he started in without further preamble, "I've got a feeling you know something which might help us find the murderer of Elizabeth Carson."  
  
"Well, you're wrong," Tandy answered shortly. "I don't know nuthin'."  
  
Hutch laced his fingers and leaned forward. "We know you and Miss Carson were friends. I'd have thought you'd want to help us find out who beat her to death."  
  
A flash of pain crossed Tandy's face at this blunt statement, but she regained her composure almost immediately and, with it, her anger. "You listen to me, blondie," she snarled. "Lizzie was the best friend I ever had, and I hope whoever killed her burns in hell for what he did. I want him to pay! But I can't tell you what I don't know." Her voice grew progressively louder until she was fairly shouting by the end.  
  
"Do you know LeRoy Simpson?" Starsky spoke for the first time from his post near the door, startling Tandy, who had forgotten he was there.  
  
"Oh, it speaks!" she said mockingly. "Thought you were only here to protect the boyfriend from my improper advances." She laughed, ignoring the dangerous glint in Starsky's eyes.  
  
"I asked you a question, sister." Starsky neared the chair, his proximity giving Tandy a bad second before her bravado reestablished itself. "Do you know LeRoy Simpson?"  
  
Tandy paused, then considered the question safe enough. "I know him." "Well?"  
  
"Well, what?"  
  
"Tandy," Hutch broke in again, drawing her attention away from the darker man. "Tell us what you know about him."  
  
The woman transferred her glare back to the blond cop. She took her time with the answer, using the opportunity to appraise him carefully. Soft blond hair and mustache framing almost classically perfect features. Good shoulders. Tall, too. She smiled a little to herself. Good-looking hunk, she decided, unconsciously using one of Elizabeth's phrases. Sure wouldn't mind paying him off in trade. Kind'a pretty, though. Probably some kind of a 'mama's' boy.  
  
Then she took another look into those arctic blue eyes and made a hasty reassessment. No mama's boy, that's for sure. Those eyes spoke of steel and controlled power, more so maybe than the other one. Of the two, her experienced eyes judged the blond as the more dangerous - the one not to cross. But there was something else in those eyes - a tempering compassion that ran through the man's personality like a streak of gold ore through rock. If only he wasn't a stinking cop.  
  
Tandy took another minute before answering. She leaned forward in the chair, licking her full lips seductively. The hint was not lost on Hutch who could not have been unaware of this appearance and who'd obviously been through it all before. It did, however, bring an unexpected blush to his fair cheeks.  
  
Tandy smiled. "I really don t know any more than anyone else does, officer," she purred, enjoying the effect on the blond. "Elizabeth met LeRoy when she first came to town. He sweet-talked her a bit, but she broke off with him after he beat her up a couple of times. He really didn't want to let her go."  
  
"Why did he?" Starsky asked from behind her.  
  
Tandy ignored him and continued addressing Hutch. "He didn't let her go, not really. He kept coming around bothering her but she's kind'a lucky 'cause he hasn't caught her alone yet." What she said sank in and she blinked back sudden tears. "Guess she doesn't have to worry about that now, does she?"  
  
"Tandy, do you know anyone else who'd want to hurt Elizabeth?"  
  
Hutch's voice was sympathetic, and Tandy found herself responding to it despite herself. "No, no one. Elizabeth was a good kid. She...." The tears flowed freely now, streaking her make-up. "Oh, man, I hate crying. I'm leaving." She stood up, intending to walk out and just let them try and stop her! She nearly collided with Starsky, who*d repositioned himself in front of the door. Tandy glared at him. "I want to leave!" she said, hysteria beginning to color her voice again. Another pair of blue eyes, darker than Hutch's, bored into her own. Not mv type she decided. More Lizzie's type. She liked 'cm darker than me. Oh, Lizzie!  
  
The tears flowed again, unfeigned this time. She indulged a smug thought that even this smart ass wasn't immune to her tears. The stern planes of his face softened, the eyes wide and compassionate. Sucker, she thought contemptuously, but as gorgeous as the other one. Lizzie would have.... "Lemme go!"  
  
There was a shuffling sound from behind as Hutch rose. "All right, Tandy. But if you think of anything.... "  
  
"Yeah, sure, Blondie, I'll run to you first thing". Starsky moved aside and, without a backwards glance, Tandy flounced out the door.  
  
"She knows something, Hutch." Starsky continued to stare thoughtfully at her retreating back. "I'm sure she knows something."  
  
Hutch crossed to his side, his own eyes fixed on the woman as well. "Maybe, but she sure wasn't going to tell us anything else."  
  
Starsky shrugged and returned to the desk. "We've still got Simpson. Wonder if anyone's come up with a location on him yet?"  
  
"We've got every cop in the city looking for him. He's bound to turn sometime."  
  
As a matter of fact, LeRoy Simpson turned up at him own home exactly an hour later. Starsky and Hutch decided it was past time they paid a visit on their prime suspect number one.  
  
*** 


	12. Chapter 12

LeRoy Simpson lived in a little house on the edge of town. He had been born in that house almost thirty years ago, grew up in it and inherited it after his mother had worked herself to death trying to support them both by taking in laundry and scrubbing floors. LeRoy couldn't have cared less about the old woman except that now he had to go to work for himself. He had tried a variety of jobs, then an even wider array of scams, petty thefts and back-alley muggings before hitting on the idea of adding a stable of girls to an already lucrative drug trade - who would kick back half their wages to a Good Samaritan protector/ organizer like himself.  
  
Unfortunately, the hookers in Langston didn't want to be organized or protected, having done quite well for themselves, thank you very much. That was when LeRoy abandoned persuasion and turned on the "charm" in a more physical sense, converting the girls one by one to his line of thinking.  
  
During daylight hours, LeRoy was laid back and slick. Sitting out here in the morning sun dozing lightly and dreaming dreams of riches and power which would one day, he firmly believed, be his. By night, however, LeRoy transformed himself into Langston's only major league pimp. Yes, sir, life was looking pretty good for LeRoy Simpson.  
  
LeRoy was dozing again, so he didn't hear the old Ford wheeze to a halt directly behind his brand new Jeep. He would have preferred a Caddy, of course, but a Caddy would have stood out in this town like a red flag, and LeRoy had learned young how to keep his head low.  
  
Starsky and Hutch climbed the porch steps quietly and LeRoy only became aware of them once they'd reached his side. He studied them through his lashes even as they studied him, LeRoy being fully cognizant of his own appearance: he was a big man, muscular, with skin that shone like fine ebony. He could have been a handsome man but for the harsh lines embedded around the eyes and the cruel tilt to the mouth.  
  
The two detectives exchanged a cautionary look and LeRoy tensed. Then Starsky smiled and kicked out sharply, knocking the chair over and dumping the negro to the rough planks. "Rise and shine, LeRoy," he called cheerily.  
  
"Hub? Wha-?" Simpson started when he hit the ground, turning astonished eyes to the two men standing over him. One dark, one light, both smelling like cop. "Who are you? Pigs," he spat, answering his own question.  
  
"On your feet, turkey." The darker man picked up the spilled chair and set it upright. After a moment's hesitation, Simpson scrambled to his feet to stand glaring at the two detectives. "Wha'choo want with me? I ain't done nuthin'," he spat, falling back into a sloppy street lingo. "Elizabeth Carson," the dark one shot suddenly. LeRoy gagged. "Who?" "Elizabeth. You know her." It was not a question.  
  
Simpson feigned an innocent look. "Don't recognize the name none," he drawled. "'Course, I know lots of ladies, if not 'zactly by name." He smirked conspiratorially. "Don't even know you... by name."  
  
The darker man shrugged. "I'm Detective Starsky," he explained patiently, as though to a six-year-old. "My temperamental partner over there is Detective Hutchinson." He smiled, a tight humorless twitch of his lips. "Now we're all friends." He dropped the false camaraderie, letting his voice and face harden. "Elizabeth was murdered last night." "Murdered?" The smirk vanished, replaced by a crafty glint deep in the black eyes. "Oh? And I'm supposed to know who done it?"  
  
Starsky ignored the question an unnecessary, so LeRoy redirected his attention to Hutchinson, who had not spoken at all. The look in the blond's eye made LeRoy squirm for all he outweighed the man by twenty pounds. Cold blue eyes bored into the black man, stripping away facade and leaving him feeling exposed and naked before the scrutiny. "I didn't kill nobody," he blustered. "You got nothin' on me. Nothin'!"  
  
Starsky took two steps forward, bringing his face up to stare belligerently into LeRoy's. "I understand you've appointed yourself guardian, protector and all around white knight to the ladies here in Langston." "Hunh?"  
  
"You're a pimp," Starsky translated acidly. "I hear the girls don't want to cooperate, you... 'persuade' them a bit." "You don't know what you're talkin' about, pig," Simpson replied sullenly. "Some whore feeds you a load and you jump through hoops like a dog."  
  
That galvanized Hutchinson into action. He gave LeRoy a hard shove, slamming him back against the wall. "You listen to me, slimeball," he gritted, each word bitten off harshly. "I've talked to a dozen girls this morning and your name keeps coming up." "So?"  
  
The blond leaned closer. "So you are my favorite suspect on a murder one rap, sleezeball, and I, for one, would love to put you away."  
  
Simpson drew his lips back over bared teeth, fighting the urge to retreat. "You got nuthin', pig."  
  
Hutch released the bunched up shirt and stepped back with a cold smile. "No?" The smile faded. "I don't like you, LeRoy. I don't like you, your job, or your methods. I'm going to put you away. Count on it." That said, he reached around to his belt and extracted a set of plastic riot cuffs. "Right now, though, we're going downtown to discuss things a bit. Put your hands behind your back."  
  
LeRoy tensed, prepared to resist, then paused when Starsky patted his shoulder in a friendly manner. "My partner doesn't like you, LeRoy. I'd watch my step if I were you, 'cause he can get reeeeal mean when he don't like you."  
  
Resistance faded, leaving a shouldering, frustrated pimp glaring wildly and yelling epithets the entire trip to headquarters.  
  
The interrogation was long and fruitless. After it was over both detectives sat regarding each other for some moments, listening to Simpson's loud voice raised in outrage as he was led away for pictures and prints. "Well, what d'ya think?" Starsky asked at last.  
  
"I think he s a bully, a slimeball and guilty." Hutch stroked his mustache moodily. "They've got his kind all over, don't they?"  
  
Starsky leaned his chair back and propped his sneaker-clad foot up on a corner of the battered desk. "You weren't expecting paradise up here, were you?"  
  
"Maybe I was."  
  
"No, you weren't." Starsky clasped his hands behind his head, completing his casual pose. "It's something else, isn't it? Something besides Simpson."  
  
Hutch looked up in surprise. "How did you know that?"  
  
Starsky smiled that bright, sunlit smile that Hutch always returned. "'Cause I know you, dummy. What is it? The dead girl?"  
  
The blond shook his head. "Not that girl, the other one - Tandy."  
  
One blue sneaker beat an uneven rhythm in the air. "Oh, yeah? What about her?"  
  
"I was thinking...." Hutch trailed off, now worrying his mustache between thumb and forefinger.  
  
"About?" the other prodded, stilling his foot.  
  
"She reminds me of someone." He shrugged. "No big deal."  
  
Starsky resumed his absent toe-tapping, smiling happily to himself. "She reminds me of Jane Fonda."  
  
Hutch left off pulling his mustache to stare at his friend. "Jane Fonda?"  
  
"All that red hair. She sure is pretty." Starsky wiggled his eyebrows lecherously. "If she wasn't doin' what she's doing.."  
  
Hutch snorted. "Dream on, Romeo. If she wasn't hooking, a girl like that wouldn't give you the time of day."  
  
Starsky tossed a paper clip across the desk. "She'd fall for my boyish charm first time I winked at her."  
  
Hutch tossed the paper clip back, hitting his partner in the head. The paper clip instantly burrowed into the thick curls, vigorously resisting Starsky's efforts to dislodge it. "Would not."  
  
"Would too." The paper clip was good and stuck.  
  
Hutch grinned at his partner's struggle; the paper clip was obviously winning, "The Paul Muni type, eh? Of course, she'd still only be twenty years old."  
  
"Yeah, well, there is that. Ouch!"  
  
Hutch laughed, lightening the mood considerably. At Starsky's pleading look, he took pity and came to the rescue. "Hold still, I'll get it. Darn, Starsk, how am I supposed to turn you loose on the streets when you can't even overcome one, measly paper clip? And stop squirming." The paper clip finally relinquished its hold, to Starsky's immense and vocal relief. "There, you're free." A pause. "No, she didn't remind me of Jane Fonda, I'm afraid."  
  
Starsky rubbed his head, eying the innocuous slip of wire balefully. "Who?"  
  
"Tandy," the blond answered, tossing it away.  
  
Starsky left off rubbing his head and pulled out a comb. "No, I mean who did she remind you of?"  
  
There was a long pause. "Sweet Alice."  
  
"But Sweet Alice is blonde, and...."  
  
He fell silent when Hutch raised his hand. "Not the way she looks," Hutch corrected him soberly, "the way she acts. So... vulnerable."  
  
Starsky swung his feet off the desk and rose, crossing to use the one-way window as a mirror. "I think you're seeing things, partner. Only thing vulnerable about that one is her wallet."  
  
Hutch, too, rose and came to stand behind his friend, meeting his eyes in the glass. "Maybe you're right. Still, there is something. "  
  
Starsky poked him in the ribs with his elbow and stowed his comb. "Tell you, what. Hutch, you stop brooding about Tandy McKendricks and I'll buy you a bowl of the best chili north of L.A."  
  
"I'm off chili, Starsk. Health foods for me again." Hutch patted his newly flat stomach. "Got 'ta watch the belly these days if I'm going to keep this off. And it wouldn't hurt you to-  
  
"Oh, no," Starsky moaned loudly. "Here we go again."  
  
*  
  
After sweating it out in a holding ceil for nearly four hours, Simpson was returned to the interrogation room where a matched pair of unfriendly expressions awaited him.  
  
"Well, look who we have here. Hutch," Starsky drawled. "If it isn't our favorite bully, pimp, and grade A choice murderer, LeRoy Simpson."  
  
"Murderer?" LeRoy licked dry lips nervously, not nearly as defiant the second time around. "I told you I didn't kill nobody. "  
  
"I understand they use the electric chair here in Oregon," Hutch said conversationally, ignoring the fidgeting black man.  
  
Starsky looked up, interested. "'Zat so?"  
  
"Yeah." Hutch leaned casually against the near wall and crossed his arms, not even deigning to look at the prisoner. "Ever see an electrocution, Starsky?"  
  
"No Tell me 'bout it," the other invited, turning a chair around and straddling it. He fixed Simpson with a piercing look and smiled.  
  
"It's really something. When they shoot that voltage through the body--"  
  
"All right!" LeRoy snapped, insolence returning if not his courage. "What do you want?"  
  
Hutch blinked. "We've already got what we want, LeRoy. We've got you for the murder of Elizabeth Carson,"  
  
"No!" LeRoy sat down heavily in one of the hard wooden chairs circling the table. "I didn't kill her."  
  
"We ran your prints, Simpson," Hutchinson told him. "You handled a string of girls in Portland. They arrested you after you beat one up so bad she almost died." He shook an admonishing finger under the man's nose. "That's quite a temper you've got here, LeRoy. Like to use your fists, don't you?  
  
"You were trying to move in on that girl in Portland, scare her into working for you," Starsky reminded him coldly. "Beat her up a couple times and, from what we've been hearing, you were trying that with Elizabeth."  
  
Simpson threw up his hands. "Sure, sure, I wanted Elizabeth to... uh... work for me, but I didn't kill her! I was with one of my girls that night - Jade Woods. You can check!"  
  
"Yeah?" Starsky sneered. "I'm sure she's going to tell me the truth, too. So tell me, man, if you didn't kill her, who did?"  
  
"I don't know, I swear I don't!" Simpson glanced from man to man, seeking some sign of encouragement. "Look, Elizabeth was seeing someone - someone regular. I don't know who, but word was he had money. Ask Tandy, she'll tell you!"  
  
Hutch looked at Starsky, who shrugged, then opened the door to beckon one of the uniformed men. "Penn."  
  
A young black man struck his head in. "Yeah, Sarge?"  
  
Hutch jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the sweating Simpson. "Put this man back in the cage. He's to be held until further notice."  
  
"Sure thing, Sarge." Officer Penn popped his gum amiably. "Come on, LeRoy, time to put you to bed."  
  
"I want to talk to Tandy again," Hutch announced as soon as Simpson was gone.  
  
"With legs like that, I'm not surprised."  
  
"Starsky!" The mischievous grin made Hutch laugh. "No, really. For some reason, I think Simpson's telling the truth."  
  
Starsky crossed his arms along the back of the chair and laid his chin on top. "Gimme a break! That guy wouldn't know the truth from a rutabaga."  
  
"He says he has an alibi. Jade Woods."  
  
"Oh, sure. I got a bridge for ya to buy, too." He sighed. "Oh, all right. You go talk to the redhead again. I'll borrow an unmarked and check out this Jade Woods. We got an address on her?"  
  
Hutch consulted a file, "1423 Everston Pike. Far side of the Bowery."  
  
"Swell." Starsky rose, his disgust clear on his face. "I'll hit the boss for a station wagon or something. Sure wish I had my Torino back. All they got down in the motor pool are dull old clunkers like you got."  
  
Hutch chuckled and smoothed his blond hair back. "Relax. We'll get your tomato back. Eventually."  
  
"That's Torino not tomato."  
  
"Whatever." Hutch peered into the one-way glass to fingercomb his mustache. "Now if you'll excuse me, partner, I've got a date with a beautiful redhead. And this time I'm going to get some answers or else."  
  
*** 


	13. Chapter 13

Hutch sat in the car a long while watching Tandy. She lounged comfortably outside the saloon displaying her wares. Long, long legs peeked through a slit in her skirt reaching nearly to her waist; the shirt was clinging, low cut. He saw her make contact - a short, bald man slipped a familiar arm around her waist. She whispered something in his ear and smiled a feline little smile. The short man blushed, shook his head and murmured in her ear. She jerked back sharply.  
  
"Get out'ta here, ya cheap pervert!" She disentangled her waist. "Go on. Scram." The little man scurried away, blushing furiously. Tandy aimed a final curse at the man's rapidly retreating figure, then sighed and leaned back against the building, painting on a smile for the next customer.  
  
Hutch watched her, but it wasn't Tandy he was seeing so much as a slender blonde with a Texas accent thick enough to cut. He shook himself, attempting to dispel the aura of deja vu clinging to the scene. She was so like Sweet Alice - that same delicate beauty and inner vulnerability. He felt a pang of regret. In only things could have been different between him and Alice. If only... +  
  
Hutch gave up the "what if" game as futile. Things were as they were. He left the car and approached the woman casually, hoping she wouldn't notice him too soon and bolt. Not that she could outrun him in those heels! He was still twenty yards from her when it happened.  
  
Tandy stumbled slightly, her ankle turning on the high heels. She cursed, falling sideways and clutching at the side of the building for balance. That was the only thing which saved her life.  
  
A bullet embedding itself In the wall where her head had rested no a fraction of a second sooner. Tandy stared mesmerized at the wall for a long moment - long enough for Hutch to close the distance between them and fling her into the relative security of the doorway.  
  
"He--- he tried to kill me!" Tandy clung to him, eyes wide and frightened. "He tried to kill me!"  
  
Hutch drew his .357, using the other hand to gently disengage her death grip. "Tandy." Sharper. "Tandy." She stared at him. "Use that phone... no, the one right there on the bar... that's right. Call the police and tell them what happened. Tell them officer needs help."  
  
He returned to the doorway, quickly searching the street for signs of anyone hurt or pinned down by the sniper. No one. At the sound of the first shot, the street had miraculously cleared of traffic. The people in this neighborhood were obviously not unacquainted with trouble and violence in all its various forms.  
  
In the background he heard Tandy making the connection and explaining the situation to the person on the other end. Good - she had told them enough to make the others cautious when they came in. Hutch took a second to pray that Starsky would be as cautious when he learned just who this "officer" who "needs help" was +  
  
Again he scanned the area, experienced eyes plotting the trajectory of the bullet, tracing it back to that busted-out window across the street. He peered more closely into the dim recess of the building. No movement, no signs of life. Time to move.  
  
With a final glance at the broken window. Hutch darted from his refuge, rolling into the shadow of a parked car. As no shots were immediately forthcoming, he risked another quick glance around the fender, contemplating the dangerous trip across the street. He was brought up short by the sound of sirens. Thank God, back up.  
  
A battered blue Dodge pulled up in the middle of the street, providing another island of protection between himself and the window. Several patrol cars arrived as well, ringing the area with a barricade of black and white. Starsky dived from the passenger side of the Dodge, Beretta drawn, and hunkered down next to Hutch. "What happened?"  
  
"Sniper." He gestured toward the broken window. "Took a shot at Tandy from there."  
  
"Hit her?"  
  
"No, but he didn't miss by much." He signaled Conner, just coming up to the car. "We're going in, Neil. Cover us."  
  
"Right." Conner drew his revolver and leaned across the hood. Two others did likewise. "Go!"  
  
Starsky and Hutchinson broke cover on either side of the car, dashing across the street to flatten themselves on opposite sides of the entrance. Nothing. The house was still ~and quiet- no movement, no evidence of habitation.  
  
Senses strained to the limit, the two began the familiar countdown. "One. . two... Three!"  
  
A two-man assault team, Hutch gave a powerful kick, shattering the lock and throwing the door wide. He brought the Magnum down, covering the right half of the room; Starsky went in low under his line of fire and controlling access from the left. Nothing happened. Sharp eyes scanned the room, evaluating the situation.  
  
Cautiously Hutch gave a signal for the uniforms to come up. "Feels deserted," Starsky whispered.  
  
Hutch nodded once but moved warily nonetheless. The house did feel deserted, empty; his combat honed senses hadn't played him false, yet, but a cop who took chances very often became a dead cop.  
  
A banging from the rear of the house told of the second police team making their own entrance. Six alert and armed police officers searched the old house from tip to bottom. No sign that it had been recently occupied, no shell casings, no suspect.  
  
"Building's clear," Starsky reported to Connor, just coming up behind him.  
  
Connor holstered his gun. "What happened, Ken?"  
  
"That's exactly what I'm going to find out," Hutch stated flatly. He stowed his own weapon and strode from the building, leaving Neil and Starsky gaping behind him.  
  
He found Tandy hovering anxiously by the door of the dingy bar. "Is it...?" she began timidly.  
  
"Come on." Hutch grabbed one slender wrist and tugged her into the little office next to the bar, shutting the office door firmly in the face of the protesting owner.... "I want the truth, Tandy, and I want it now. Who was it that was shooting at you?"  
  
Tandy yanked at her captive wrist. "How should I know?"  
  
"That's enough." Eyes blazing. Hutch gave the girl a final shake before releasing her. "You may like to play games, but I don't. Someone almost blew your head off just now. Or did that escape your notice? And next time he won't miss." Hutch let the words sift down into the hushed room. "Tandy?" he asked more gently. "Tell me."  
  
The woman swallowed once and dropped her eyes from that piercing scrutiny. She stood rubbing her wrist and thinking carefully. She was quiet for so long Hutch thought she was refusing to answer, and when she spoke it was emotionlessly, without inflection. "His name is Jimmy Cage."  
  
Hutch's brow furrowed at the distant familiarity. "The guy who built the resort?"  
  
Tandy shook her head. "No, his nephew, Jimmy. He owns the Silver Lift Motel out on Route 9."  
  
"And you think he shot at you?"  
  
She shrugged. "Who else?"  
  
Hutch regarded her through narrowed eyes. "Any particular reason he wanted to kill you, or is it just open season on Tandy's?"  
  
Tandy looked up, surprised by the unexpected joke, but there was no humor on the blond's face. "He killed Elizabeth."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"He did," Tandy flared. "He was with her the night she was m-murdered! "  
  
Open skepticism gave way to tentative acceptance. "How do you know that? You were working the streets all night."  
  
"Well, I still know." Tandy pouted prettily, then obviously deciding it wasn't getting her anywhere, dropped wearily into a chair and crossed her legs. "Okay, Blondie, listen up. Elizabeth was seeing this guy regularly. Every Tuesday and Friday I'd see this weasel slink in the back door, looking real guilty, you know? He'd stay with Elizabeth 'till about five and slink out again the way he came."  
  
Hutch studiously kept his eyes on Tandy's face. "And he was there the night of the murder?"  
  
"It was Tuesday, wasn't it?" the woman demanded impatiently. "Besides, I saw him slip in around ten. He didn't know I was watching." Hutch stared at her. "Well?"  
  
"Well what?"  
  
Tandy's pretty face tightened. "Well, aren't you going to go arrest him? He shot at me!"  
  
Hutch began to pace the room, his head sunk on his breast. After a minute he turned to fix her with a stern look. "Tandy, why didn't you tell us this before?"  
  
That took the wind out of her. "Well... I..." she trailed off when Hutch frowned.  
  
"You said he didn't know you saw him go in to Elizabeth?" he went on thoughtfully. "Yet, he knew enough to shoot at you today." High heels met the floor with a thump as she rose; Hutch gave her no time to collect herself. His next question struck like a pile driver. "How did he know, Tandy? Was it because you called and told him?"  
  
"What are you getting at?" Tandy demanded angrily. "What are you accusing me of?"  
  
"Were you blackmailing him, Tandy?" There. That was blunt enough.  
  
"Uh..." The woman stared at him, the momentary tinge of guilt covered over by innocent indignation.  
  
She was good. Hutch thought. If he hadn't caught the emotion that flashed in her eyes for the barest of heartbeats, he might even have fallen for it.  
  
Tandy saw his expression and knew she had betrayed herself. She switched to open defiance. "Well, so what if I was, huh? You can*t prove a thing." Her face twisted. "He killed Elizabeth. I know that. So why shouldn't I get a little something out of it too, huh?" She patted her hair coyly. "I did tell you I wanted him to pay, didn't I?" She came nearer, running one hand across Hutch's muscled chest. "It's not too late, you know," she whispered, reaching up to caress his throat with her lips, "You don't have to turn me in. And I'd be... grateful."  
  
Her perfume, a musky scent, was cloying, suffocating. All his cherished comparisons of this woman - this delicate, fragile woman - to Sweet Alice shattered, brittle shards slicing deep. Repulsed, he shoved her away. "Not today, Tandy. Come on, let's go talk to Chief Connor."  
  
"You jerk," she spat, too startled to think of a stronger epithet. Hutch reached for her wrist again, but the girl snatched it away. "I can walk by myself, officer." Head high, she led the way back out to the bar.  
  
Hutch followed, unaccountably depressed. He had known in his heart of hearts that the girl was a hard one. She'd made her living for years catering to the depravities of innumerable men; seemingly content with the corner she'd made for herself in the cesspool of the street. The role of "fallen woman" suited her somehow, and she played it with all the skill of a master of the art.  
  
Tonelessly, Hutch made his report to Chief Connor, finishing with, "Put out an APB on Jimmy Cage, owner of the Silver Lift. Starsky and I'll head out to the motel itself. He might be laying low out there."  
  
"Right." Connor put a hand on Tandy's shoulder. "Come on, little lady. As of now you are a material witness."  
  
"Hmmph." Tandy turned large green eyes back up to Hutch. "Hey, Blondie," she called softly. "I meant what I said in there. You're still welcome to... visit me sometime... if you want."  
  
Hutch dredged up a weak smile. "I'll keep that in mind." He saw Starsky staring from him to Tandy and back with a worried frown. "What are you waiting for? Let's go pick up Cage."  
  
"Ken," Neil stopped him with a touch. "Cage is a big mouth, but he does know guns. Shot game all his life, stint in the Army. I'm sending backup." At Hutch's nod, Connor waved over two of his men. "Penn, Samuels, go with Starsky and Hutchinson to pick up Jimmy Cage out at the Silver Lift Motel. He's wanted in connection with the Elizabeth Carson murder. Suspect is to be considered armed and dangerous. "  
  
"Right, Chief." Penn cracked his ever-present gum and grinned genially at the two detectives. "Looks like you guys brought us a little piece of Los Angeles when you moved this way. "  
  
"Yeah," Hutch agreed glumly. "Too bad it had to be the worst part."  
  
**  
  
A yellow Honda was just pulling out of the lot of the Silver Lift Motel when the four policemen, sirens screaming, arrived. "That's Cage," Starsky shouted into the mike. Hutch nodded, already pulling the car around to give chase. "Penn, Samuels, he's making a run for it."  
  
"Gotcha, Starsky." Penn's voice came thorough, only slightly distorted by the police radio. "We're right behind you. "  
  
"Good man." Starsky rehung the mike, "Come on, come on, can't you get this thing to go any faster?"  
  
Hutch ignored him and concentrated on keeping the big car under control. The road twisted and turned sharply in this area, dropping off on the right into a dizzying chasm many hundreds of feet deep. Starsky peered out the window once, shuddered, then refused to look in that direction again.  
  
The Honda was in good shape and Cage was an excellent driver, shifting gears with all the acumen of a professional. Hutch found himself at a bit of a disadvantage, being unused to mountain roads, but he kept the big car at top speed, tires squealing around one bend after the other.  
  
Starsky caught his breath as one particularly tight curve brought the entire valley below into magnificent panorama. "Watch it!" he gasped, feeling the blood drain out of his cheeks. "You trying to kill us?"  
  
Hutch spared him a smile if not a glance. "You're talking about my driving? The same guy who double-clutched me into a truck three years ago?"  
  
"I got news for ya, buddy, I'd go through that truck all over again if it meant getting off this mountain in one piece! "  
  
The chase lasted several miles, the road dipping steeply towards the valley. They were on level ground before Starsky thought to breathe again. "Thank God. Whatcha waitin' on?"  
  
"Not a thing." Hutch floored the pedal, bringing the Ford up even with the Honda.  
  
Starsky waited until the cars had matched their velocity before releasing his seatbelt to lean head-and-shoulders out the passenger window. "Pull over!" he shouted, brandishing both badge and weapon threateningly.  
  
Cage glanced over, startled, and that was his mistake. Another curve came up unexpectedly, causing Hutch to slow in order to negotiate it at all. Cage, distracted, failed to brake in time. Tires screaming, he skidded off the road into a ditch. Miraculously unhurt, he was out of the car in a flash and into the concealing cover of some nearby rocks almost before Hutch had time to skid the police care to a halt.  
  
Starsky swore, leaping from the Ford. "He's got that rifle with him."  
  
Hutch drew his own gun, pausing to signal Penn and Samuels, now parked behind the Honda. They nodded and quietly moved off to the right of the gunman. Hutch circled left while Starsky took up a position behind a conveniently placed tree directly in front of Cage's refuge.  
  
"Cage! I know you're in there. Come out with your hands up." Starsky hadn't really expected a reply, but he got one in the form of several grains of high-caliber defiance expanding itself into the tree.  
  
"He's good," Starsky muttered with mild dismay. He ducked around quickly, loosing eight shots at the boulder protecting Cage. "Whatever . happened to ... quiet ... peaceful... boring... little... Langston?" he grunted, punctuating each word with 9mm parabellum. He drew back into the safety of the tree's shadow, dropping the clip and jamming the new one home. Only a fool used up his last bullet before reloading.  
  
Cage took the opportunity to fire another round of leaded death in his direction. Come on. Hutch, Starsky prayed, I'm pinned down here. He peeked around the tree again looking for any sign of movement. Nothing. Cage must have- Wait! A flash of color behind that bush... Hutch.  
  
Hutchinson had worked himself around to the left of Cage's position, but had insufficient cover to gain himself a good vantage. The big Magnum hung heavy in his hand - useless.  
  
Starsky stared at his partner, cursing fluently. Hutch was practically exposed up there on the rise; fool always picked the most dangerous spots, trusting Starsky to take advantage of the opportunities he created.  
  
Starsky stared harder, willing the other man to meet his eyes. Moments later Hutch lifted his head and sent the answer to Starsky's silent question. Starsky's eyes widened and he shook his head slightly, but the blond's face tightened, his eyes narrow.  
  
Starsky looked around wildly, searching for Penn and Samuels on the side of the rockfall. Nothing. They must be having trouble getting around those rocks. And there didn't seem to be any other alternatives to what Hutch was planning, either.  
  
Resigned, he met Hutch's eyes again and nodded shortly. Okay, partner. Let's do it.  
  
Hutch returned the nod and held up five fingers. On the count of five, then.  
  
One.. Starsky cocked his gun.  
  
Two... Hutch came out of his crouch up onto the balls of his feet.  
  
Three ... Starsky tensed, ready, feeling the adrenal surge quicken his pulse.  
  
Four . Hutch took a deep breath.  
  
Five!  
  
Hutch leaped up, exposing himself to Cage's line of fire. The gun in his hand bucked savagely, loosing five shots in half as many seconds. No use, of course - Cage was protected too well from Hutch's attack.  
  
Fortunately, however, Cage really was as crazy as Connor had warned. From where he stood, Starsky could see the malicious snarl draw Cage's lips from yellowed teeth, saw him rise up slightly, aiming the rifle directly at Hutch's heart.  
  
Starsky's bullet took the man in the face, knocking him backwards into the rocks with a clatter to lie still. Cautiously the two detectives approached from either angle, wary of a trick. They reached the point where Cage had fallen just as Penn and Samuels broke through the ground cover the east.  
  
"Good shot," Samuels, a middle-aged patrolman, applauded. "Took him out nice and clean."  
  
Starsky spared him a disgusted glare that changed to a grimace once he caught sight of what was left of Cage's face. The heavy slug had caught him pretty near dead center, blowing away a large portion of the man's forehead. Sickened, he looked away.  
  
"Samuels, call for a coroner's wagon," Hutch ordered curtly. He crossed to where Penn was being quietly sick in the bushes. "Vince?"  
  
"S'okay, man." The young cop struggled to his feet. "I gotta go sit down." He followed his partner back to the patrol car and disappeared into the back seat.  
  
This left Hutchinson and Starsky alone with the body. "You all right?" Hutch stepped protectively between Starsky and the corpse, occluding the view, and gripped Starsky's shoulders. "Starsk?"  
  
Starsky, his lips numb, forced a half smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. It had to be done."  
  
The blond studied him, not releasing the lean shoulder, sensing a need for the contact. "Good job, buddy." The other trembled under his touch, causing Hutch to frown. "You sure you're ail right?"  
  
Starsky nodded. "I guess it goes both ways."  
  
"What does?"  
  
"B-being afraid for..."  
  
"Yeah." Hutch lifted his own hand; it trembled as well. "Not as easy as it used to be."  
  
"No." A pause. "Hutch?"  
  
"Yeah, buddy?"  
  
"Can we go home now?"  
  
*** 


	14. Chapter 14

The death of Jimmy Cage closed the Carson's case as far as Chief Connor was concerned. Not so Detective Hutchinson, who had one last point to clear up on his personal agenda.  
  
"This isn't over yet, Starsk." Hutch broached the subject the next morning. "Not until we take LeRoy Simpson out of the game too."  
  
Starsky, who had quaffed rather more than his share of Scotch the night before, was more than ready to take his hangover out on somebody. "That bum's been working the girls for two years now and nobody's been able to pin anything on him yet," he sneered, "And now you wanna give it a try... ooh, my head." He dropped his face onto his crossed arms, giving up the attempt to start a quarrel. It just wasn't worth the trouble this morning. And beside, Hutch had that look on his face which meant that argument was useless anyway. Simpson was going to take a fail, with or without Starsky's help. He turned his head peeking up at his friend through one bloodshot eye. "All right, all right," he groaned, "Whadda'ya want to do about him?"  
  
"I'm not sure." Hutch frowned. "What do we know about this guy?" He perched on the edge of Starsky*s desk, directing the question to the top of the bowed, curly head. "We know he's got a quick temper, likes to beat up on his girls."  
  
"But none of them are going to testify against him," Starsky's muffled voice came back. "They're all too scared."  
  
"Yeah. And the creep's been too slick to let us catch him collecting from them." Hutch thought again. "File says he got busted for trying to fence stolen property five years ago. No evidence he still does that, though." Save for a muffled grunt, there was no answer to that. Hutch went on thinking out loud. "That only leaves the drugs."  
  
Starsky looked up at that. "Drugs?"  
  
"Neil thinks Simpson's been dealing drugs on the side. He's never been caught with anything."  
  
Starsky considered this, went to shake his head, then though better of it. He sank his head back down onto his arms, though angled so he could see his friend. "We'd have to catch him dealing quantity to put him away for any length of time, and he's not stupid enough to sell to one of us."  
  
"We need someone else to make the buy then."  
  
"But who? Simpson was born and raised here. He'd know anyone in town working with..." He broke off, a sly grin lighting his face. "Or maybe I do. Listen up. Hutch, I think I know a way to nail Simpson's mangy hide right to the wall..."  
  
***  
  
The sleek sportscar was parked in the same spot outside the tavern that it had occupied for the past three weeks. Passersby invariably paused to admire its sleek lines and racy contour. Such a car was an unusual sight here in the Bowery section, at least during early hours. Mostly the tourists kept to themselves in the ski resort area, rarely venturing into the poorer sections except at night, and then furtively, in search of a thrill or a woman. Here in the twilight of early evening the car attracted a great deal of attention from the inhabitants of the Bowery - and its driver no less so.  
  
The driver would come every evening - a tall black man of indeterminate age, expensively dressed if a trifle outlandishly. He would visit several bars during the day, but usually ending up here at Bellfriar's Bar, where he would spend the rest of the evening drinking beer, eating candy bars, playing pool or talking to Tandy when she was between tricks.  
  
Tandy had made sure to drum up an acquaintance with the well-dressed Afro- American the first time the man had pulled out his wallet. The roll of bills had nearly caused Tandy's eyes to pop out of her head - obviously money was no problem here. She made it a point to cozy up a bit. There was something quite irresistible about a full wallet, after all.  
  
The black man responded to Tandy's charms with enthusiasm. They began to spend more and more time together, and could often be seen talking tete-a- tete in a dark corner or sometimes disappearing together for hours at a time. Tandy and the man - Abdul, by name - soon became quite an item among those in the Bowery interested in such things.  
  
Usually the man was a pleasant, amiable sort, a bit high-strung perhaps, but in control. He made Tandy laugh, being supplied with an inexhaustible source of one-liners and anecdotes about any subject she could name. He was a gentle and considerate lover as well, giving Tandy as much pleasure as she gave him. Tandy almost regretted charging him. Almost.  
  
Occasionally, however, his mood would switch. Abdul would become nervous, almost explosive in nature. At such times Tandy would remain very quiet, allowing the man to take his ill humor on anyone unfortunate enough to cross him.  
  
Not being unacquainted with the ways of the streets, Tandy put two and two together without problem. One day, about three weeks after meeting him, Tandy brought the subject up over her fifth gin and tonic. "You know, Abdul, I like you."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" The black crumpled up a candy wrapper and dropped it to the floor. It made a dull crinkling sound when it hit. "Well, I like you too, sweetie."  
  
"No, I mean I really like you." The room was a bit blurry tonight. Business had been slow and Tandy had spent the last hour and a half drinking with Abdul.  
  
"That's nice." The man reached for his beer with one hand and a cigarette with the other. "I'm sure that makes my week."  
  
Smoke from his cigarette drifted across the table, tickling Tandy's nose. She sniffed. "Are... you angry with... with..." She sneezed explosively. "Excuse me. Are you angry with me?"  
  
Abdul transferred his cigarette to the other hand, then stubbed it out with a sigh. "No, baby, I ain't angry with you. It's just... kind'a personal, ya know?"  
  
Tandy moved her chair a little closer and ran one finger down the man's slender arm. "Maybe... I can help."  
  
"Don't need that kind of help right now, babe."  
  
"I didn't mean that!" she giggled. "I mean, I really can help."  
  
The black regarded her narrowly. "Why don't you spell it out?"  
  
Tandy stroked the man's chest lightly, forcing herself not to pause at the bulging wallet in his breast pocket. "It's not like a person can't tell you're... needing something." She smiled coyly. "Those chocolate bars are a dead giveaway, sugar. What is it? Coke? Smack?"  
  
"Heroin," the man admitted reluctantly.  
  
"Thought so. Connection gone sour?"  
  
A grudging nod. The man fidgeted with his beer, then lit another cigarette, watching his hands shake slightly. "I have a little left - 'nuff for a day or so. After that..," He shrugged. "You say you can help?"  
  
"I know where you can score something if you're interested. I can even get you quantity."  
  
The man's eyes lit up. "Keep talking, baby. 0l' Abdul is all ears."  
  
*** 


	15. Chapter 15

The roar of the car's engine scared wildlife for a hundred yards around. Birds fluttered from their perches and small animals fled in panic before the intrusion of man in their peaceful green domain.  
  
LeRoy heard the noise and leaned across a battered iron stove until he could peek out the window and watch the car pull up outside the little shack. He nodded approvingly to himself. Now that was a ride! Sleek lines, flashy paint job - bet it was fast, too. Beat that freaking jeep he had to drive to maintain his image.  
  
Two people climbed slowly out of the car. Tandy he dismissed without a second glance. She hadn't agreed to let him pimp her, but they had reached an equitable arrangement some time ago so far as the drugs were concerned. Tandy had contacts - some even came from as far as 'Frisco regularly to stock up. Simpson provided the product; good quality and even occasionally quantity. Together they made a profitable team and were starting to deal big time. And big time, LeRoy reflected, was what it was all about.  
  
Simpson watched the tail black get out of the sporty car, carefully summing the man up and paying particular interest to the expensive leather briefcase the man carried. The tall man dressed like LeRoy would himself if he could - cool, a bit flamboyant, but he carried himself as if he were used to such clothes.  
  
No cop - LeRoy would know it if he was. Uh-huh, this brother smelled of the streets. And the clothes spoke money - a language LeRoy could relate to.  
  
Tandy climbed the rickety steps and knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open. The door made a loud squealing noise on rusting hinges before giving up the fight to remain in a closed position. "LeRoy?"  
  
"Right here, baby." Simpson moved closer to the entrance, his booted feet thumping heavily on the old wood. "Ya wanna introduce me to the boyfriend?"  
  
"LeRoy, this is Abdul Kamar. Abdul is from Las Vegas."  
  
"Is that right?" Neither man offered to shake. They spent several seconds sizing each other up the way two alley cats might assess a possible threat. LeRoy, impressed despite himself, nodded. "What it is, brother. I understand you want to do a little business."  
  
"Maybe." Abdul maintained an impassive expression, obviously far less impressed than was Simpson.  
  
"What +choo looking for?"  
  
"What do ya got?"  
  
Simpson snarled. "You here to play games or sumpthin'? I asked what're you looking for?"  
  
"Smack!" It was Tandy who broke the stubborn silence, not understanding the source of the tension- "He's looking for smack, LeRoy. In quantity. "  
  
"Quantity. Right." Simpson bared white teeth- "Tandy says you're looking for a kee?"  
  
Kamar cocked his head, examining Simpson as one might a particularly repulsive if harmless insect. "One kilo now. More if it's good.  
  
Simpson, too impressed now even for indignation, giggled. "You can move that much horse?"  
  
The other man smiled coldly. "You let me worry how I'm gonna move it, m'man. Question is, can you supply it?"  
  
LeRoy puffed up, affronted. "I can supply anything you can move, man. But I ain't showing nuthin' till I see your bread."  
  
Kamar hefted the briefcase, obviously considering his options. "Solid." He set the case on the rough table and snapped open the locks.  
  
"Far out!" LeRoy breathed. Money, green, crisp, beautiful money, lay neatly stacked in the bottom of the case. LeRoy reached for a wad, but Kamar was there first, blocking access.  
  
"I want to see your product first, bro. Not that I don't trust you, you understand, but I don't be seeing no stash, either."  
  
Simpson shot him a murderous glare, but withdrew his hand. "Right here, bro."  
  
He gave the old stove a push, enjoying the surprise on the other man's face when it moved silently on well-oiled castors. Underneath, partly concealed in a small hollow, lay a steel box; small beetles scampered out of the way when it was withdrawn. Simpson stamped on one particularly bloated insect disgusted. "I always did hate those things." He pulled out a key and unlocked the box. "Enjoy."  
  
A wrapped plastic bag filled with a brownish powder lay inside the box. Kamar lifted it thoughtfully in one hand, gauging the weight. "Feels about right."  
  
"It's on the money, dude."  
  
Simpson watched carefully as Kamar slit a small hole into the bag and dipped in a finger. The finger disappeared into his mouth. "Heroin."  
  
"What 'ja expect, baby powder?"  
  
"Tastes like decent quality."  
  
"You won't get better," Simpson boasted "And I can supply heavy, long as you're up front with the green."  
  
"That's all we needed to know." A voice from the open door drew all three around violently.  
  
"Oh, sunofa--!" Simpson's eyes bulged, shock and dismay written clearly across the strong features.  
  
"Wrong. Cops." A large grin followed by Starsky stepped into the room. Hutch close at his heels. Both had their weapons drawn.  
  
"How. . . how. . . oh, no, " Simpson repeated. He turned furiously on Tandy. "You were followed, you stupid whore!"  
  
Tandy recoiled, both hands raised defensively. "I didn't--" The blow sounded unnaturally loud, bone against bone. It caught the girl high on the cheek and knocked her back across the old stove. She fell to the floor with a clatter.  
  
Eyes blazing cold fury, Hutch bunched the front of LeRoy's shirt with one powerful hand and slammed him into the rough planked wall. The Magnum dug uncomfortably into the man's throat, cutting off oxygen. "Touch her again, scumbucket, and I'll kill you."  
  
Simpson drank deep those wintry eyes and saw his own death reflected therein. He froze.  
  
"Don't blame the girl." Starsky reached down and drew Tandy to her feet. "We didn't follow her."  
  
"Then how...?" Simpson croaked.  
  
"We followed you."  
  
"Me?" Simpson gawked. "But I didn't see nobody."  
  
"Which is exactly what you can expect to see when I follow you." Starsky grinned at the quotation from Sherlock Holmes. "And I always keep my word. You're gonna do hard time for this, LeRoy." He pulled a pair of cuffs out of his pocket. "You, too, Tandy." When Tandy said nothing, he shifted his attention to the fourth man of the group, Abdul, who was looking exceptionally calm under the circumstances. "How ya doin', Huggy?"  
  
"Huggy?!" This from the mouths of both prisoners.  
  
Abdul All Kamar, A.K.A. Huggy Bear, grinned broadly. "I'm doin' just fahn, Starsky, now that ah can get out 'a these mundane threads and into mah own more stylish apparel." He flicked an imaginary speck of lint from one lapel. "Just don't seem right, lookin' so..."  
  
"Normal?" Starsky supplied helpfully.  
  
Huggy buffed his fingernails on his vest. "Normal ain't what I was about, m ' man!"  
  
"You're a plant." Tandy stared at Huggy as though she'd never really seen him before. "All the time I'm spending with you and you're nothing but another lousy cop." She looked disgusted. "I must be losing my touch."  
  
"Not from where I was sitting last night, sugar."  
  
"Yeah, where were you sitting last night, Hug?" Starsky finished cuffing Simpson, who was still gaping stupidly. "We lost track of you after you left the bar."  
  
"A gentlemen never tells, m'boy," Huggy grinned expansively. "But it sure do beat listening at keyholes!"  
  
Up until now LeRoy had maintained an astonished silence, for once at a loss for words. Finally it dawned on him that the "big time" he'd wanted so badly was going to be exactly that - big time - in prison. A stream of invective heralded this sudden enlightenment. "This was your idea, wasn't it, Hutchinson?" he finished, yanking wildly at his bound hands. "I could- -"  
  
"Hey, hey, LeRoy, that ain't fair. You really ought'a give credit where credit is due." Starsky smiled modestly.  
  
"He means it was his idea," Hutch translated. He shrugged at Simpson's disbelieving look. "What can I say? Sometimes he's smarter than he looks."  
  
Starsky grimaced indignantly, but allowed the left-handed compliment to pass. Not so Simpson. "Your idea, was it, white boy? You made a bad enemy in me. A real bad enemy. Both of you."  
  
Starsky took a menacing step closer. "Save your threats, LeRoy. By the time you get out of jail, you're going to be too old to carry 'em out."  
  
Unintimidated, Simpson studied him closely as if to commit every detail of the detective's features to memory. He gave Hutch the same treatment, his eyes full of murder.  
  
"Come on, LeRoy." Hutch gave the man a shove toward the door. "We're going for a ride."  
  
Starsky led the handcuffed Tandy out as well, but pulled up short in front of Abdul's sleek red sportscar. "My car!" he cheered happily. "Oh, baby, it's been a long time!"  
  
"That's your car, huh?" Tandy asked disparagingly. "Figures." "Sweetheart, that ain't just a car, that's a work of art!" Starsky caressed one fender lovingly, much to Hutch's disgust.  
  
"Will you come on, Starsk? I want to finish booking these two before midnight."  
  
Starsky polished the fender with his sleeve before reluctantly resuming his trip to the Ford. "'Kay. Hey, Hug, drive her careful back to town, will 'ya? I've been looking forward to having her back for a long time."  
  
Fists planted on his narrow hips, Huggy Bear turned a fierce eye on the curly-haired detective. "Careful? I've been driving this big soup can around for better'n three weeks. You see a scratch on it?" he demanded, kicking one tire.  
  
Starsky winced. "No, but..."  
  
"A dent anywhere?"  
  
"No..."  
  
"Then what choo talkin' 'bout, drive careful?" Huggy slipped easily into the street jive he'd been unable to use for nearly a month. "Way you drive, man, you gots no room to talk." Starsky glowered and returned to wipe the white wall with a handkerchief fished from his back pocket; Tandy rolled her eyes. "What's the matter with the way I drive?"  
  
"Will you two come on?" Hutch bellowed, effectively silencing them both.  
  
"Okay, okay." Starsky shoved Tandy into the back seat of the Ford. He made to say something, then broke off to wink at Hutch over the roof of the car, that crooked little grin lighting his face from within. "Hey, Hutch?" Hutch smiled back - he had to - never having been able to resist responding to that liquid sunshine. "What, Starsk?"  
  
"Just like old times, ain't it?"  
  
Hutch looked up into the crystal blue sky, breathed deep the gentle fragrance of the forest- He listened to the birds singing again from the trees and examined the feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment which came from a job well done. And lastly, he looked back at the curly-haired imp grinning at him from across the car, and his heart filled to bursting with joy. "No, Starsk, it's not quite like old times. "It's better." *** 


	16. Chapter 16

Hours later Starsky and Hutchinson had seen LeRoy Simpson and Tandy McKendricks questioned, booked and jailed, and were just putting the finishing touches to the mountain of paperwork that accompanied every major arrest. The clack-clack of the typewriter was liberally interspersed with much erasing, paper crumpling and cursing, but finally the mountain was reduced to the proverbial molehill, the bulk neatly typed, signed and waiting in the OUT basket for Chief Connor's perusal, The office was very quiet; most of the force had long since either gone home or left for patrol. The only ones left were themselves. Lisa Smith, the swing-shift dispatcher over in her little glassed-off cubicle, and Sam Rogers back in the detention/ interrogation section. Otherwise, excepting only some prisoners, the building was deserted.  
  
Starsky muttered an oath under his breath and yanked the sheet from the typewriter. Thank God for erasers. He didn't think he could face retyping this page again. "Ya know. Hutch, I think it's taking us longer to do this stupid paperwork than it did to pop Simpson."  
  
"There's enough of it," Hutch agreed morosely. "You about done?"  
  
"Yeah." Starsky went back to erasing the report, put the eraser down and sat staring, lost in thought. He rubbed his chest in an unconscious gesture, wincing slightly as the movement only served to increase his discomfort. Whenever he was tired or exposed to dampness or temperature variations, the old wounds tended to protesting even the slightest strain put upon them. Oddly enough, the bullet scars in his chest hurt far less than the broken leg he'd suffered when he was twelve.  
  
He drew a painful breath, rubbing his chest again, but unaware of the action. His mind was still on the report he was filling out. With a disgusted grunt he reach again for the worn-out eraser and raised his eyes. "Hey, Hutch, how do you spell... what's wrong?"  
  
The blond was studying him quite openly, reproachful concern sparking in the azure eyes. "I should be asking you that. How much are you hurting? Bad?"  
  
Starsky's hand dropped away as if stung. "It's all right." He shrugged. "It hurts. Nothing an aspirin won't fix." The blond accepted that. Starsky typed valiantly several more minutes, removed the paper and scrawled a signature on the bottom. The form joined its brethren in the OUT basket. "That does it. LeRoy Simpson, signed, sealed and delivered."  
  
"So's Tandy."  
  
Starsky regarded his partner narrowly. "Are you still thinking about her?" He picked up a paperclip, fiddled with it, then tossed it at Hutch, hitting the man on the top of the head.  
  
"Hey!" Hutch retrieved the sliver of aluminum, made to toss it back, then hesitated. "Are you sure you want to start this again?"  
  
"No!" Starsky covered his head in semi-mock panic. "Those things don't like me too well."  
  
"You kidding, Starsk?" Hutch feinted a toss, causing Starsky to howl and duck. "They love you. Even paperclips have trouble resisting the Paul Muni type."  
  
That won him a scowl. "Smart ass." He brightened. "Hey, wanna go to Mario's for something to eat?"  
  
"Might as well." The paperclip disappeared into the trashcan. "We've been too busy to go grocery shopping for weeks. "  
  
"We've got food at home."  
  
Hutch regarded the innocent expression with dawning horror. "You haven't been eating that stuff, have you? Do you have any idea how old that food is?" "Tasted all right to me." Hutch looked nauseated. "Hey, partner, if it hasn't killed me by now.."  
  
"Don't be too sure, Starsk. Even that cast iron stomach of yours isn't going to last forever. Now if you were to try some bean--"  
  
"Don't even say it!" Starsky held up a hand. "I don't wanna even hear the word bean sprouts..." He made a sound reminiscent of a cat gagging on a hairball. "... much less eat 'em. Are we going to Mario's or not?"  
  
"You know it wouldn't hurt you to start eating better," Hutch said, reaching for his jacket. "Get some vitamins, some minerals."  
  
Starsky ushered him out first with a little wave. "So I'll order a Daiquiri, okay? Geez, what a nag."  
  
***  
  
Mario LeGretto had spent twenty-five years on the Langston Police Force. When he retired in 1972, he opened up a little tavern only steps from the municipal building. Comfortable and relaxing, boasting a pool table, dart boards and muted lights, it was the ideal place for a weary police officer to end his "official" day before returning to the "real" world of wife, kids and television. Most of the Force ended up there after duty shift was over, and Langston's two newest detectives found that they enjoyed the atmosphere as well. It wasn't exactly Huggy Bear's Pitts, but then, what was?  
  
Starsky stepped through the doors of the tavern, coming up short. "Excuse me." He smiled his brightest smile at the young woman he'd "accidentally" bumped.  
  
The girl wet full lips, running an appreciative eye down the lines of his tight muscled form. Her scrutiny paused at the hip line. "My pleasure." She dimpled. "I'm--"  
  
"Loretta, is this guy bothering you?"  
  
Starsky glanced over his shoulder and up -- and up -- into a pair of piggish eyes set into 300 pounds of pure gristle. He backed away hurriedly, stammering. "No, I was just..."  
  
The man ignored Starsky altogether, his muscles rippling ominously under his checkered shirt. "Loretta?"  
  
Loretta tossed her beautiful head, dislodging a lock of sleek brown hair, which fell into her eyes. "He's not bothering me, Billy." She took the large man's arm, steering him to the bar.  
  
Starsky imagined he heard the floor quake with each step of the massive man.  
  
Loretta flipped her hair back over her shoulder, using the opportunity to mouth the words "Husband," and "Maybe later," to Starsky. Then she was swallowed up by the crowds. Starsky stared after her, dismayed. Of course she was married- And of course she had to be married to the Hulk. The way his luck was going.. He became aware of Hutch standing in the doorway. Smirking.  
  
"Sure was pretty," Hutch commented to no one in particular. Starsky simmered. "Didn't get her phone number, I suppose?"  
  
"Oh, shut up." Starsky turned his back to the muffled guffaws and surveyed the crowd crossly. "Looks like everyone's here. "  
  
"Hmmm." Fit of laughter over. Hutch looked around as well. "There's Neil and Huggy. You go over to the table; I'll get a couple of beers. And stay out of trouble."  
  
Starsky scowled blackly, thinking thoughts of sweet revenge. Opportunities for a payback always presented themselves if you thought about it hard enough. He was gleefully considering ancient Chinese tortures when he reached Connor's table.  
  
Huggy, in a red silk shirt, was dressed more flamboyantly than he had been that afternoon. He welcomed Starsky with a flick of his cigarette. "Ah, my favorite fuzz friends. What it be, Starsky?"  
  
Starsky brushed ash off his jacket. "Hey, Hug. Neil." He turned a chair around and straddled it backwards, resting his chin on the backrest. "You two are thick as thieves over here. Hope you aren't telling Neil too many fairy tales, Hug. We're just going to have to deny 'em anyway."  
  
Neil burst out laughing. "As a matter of fact, that's exactly what he is telling me." Starsky looked puzzled.  
  
"Fairy tales. Huggy was just telling me about the time the three of you went undercover in that gay bar and..." Starsky held up a peremptory hand. "Please, spare me the details, I was there." He turned to Huggy with a pained expression. "Don't know why--"  
  
"Move over." Hutch gave his partner's chair a solid kick. "Come on, move your butt, Starsk. I'm not holding these things all night."  
  
Starsky moved over to make room for Hutch to slide into a chair. The blond set one beer down in front of Starsky, then took a long pull of the other. "Hits the spot." He wiped suds off his mustache. "You telling Neil about the bust today?" "Not exactly," Starsky snickered.  
  
"The Bear does not rest on his laurels, m'man." Huggy drew himself up. "For your information, we have been discussing the finer points of investigative procedure in an undercover situation. "  
  
Starsky snickered again. Hutch contrived to look impressed. "Really? Learn anything?"  
  
"I have learned that some aspects of police work can turn out to be a real blast." Huggy looked regretful. "That Tandy sure was sweet. Hated to set her up like that."  
  
"Don't worry 'bout it, Hug." Starsky patted a thin shoulder. "She was dealing smack. Had to be taken out."  
  
"Maybe so, but I' m sure sorry it had to be me who done it." He noticed a suspiciously quiet Hutch staring pensively into his beer. "Looks like I ain't the only one what feels that way."  
  
Hutch ignored that and pointedly changed the subject. "It's not over, you know."  
  
A blare from the jukebox drowned out anything further he was about to say. The men waited patiently while the bartender hastily adjusted the volume. Connor stared at Hutch, alarmed. "Did I just hear what I thought I heard?" A nod. "What isn't over yet? Is there something wrong with the evidence?"  
  
Starsky's brow went up. "Neil, with the microphone, the heroin and three witnesses. I'd say the evidence against Simpson is pretty well air tight."  
  
"Then what isn't over?" Connor demanded, carefully setting down his beer.  
  
"The case."  
  
Connor looked from one pair of blue eyes to the other, finding the same stubborn determination reflected in each. Finally in desperation he turned to Huggy. "Do you know what these two hot shots are talking about?"  
  
The tall black raised his hand, again scattering cigarette ashes in all directions. "Not me, man. The way these dudes' minds work is not for such lowly acolytes as we to understand."  
  
Connor looked even less enlightened than he had before, were that possible. He picked up his beer again, hefted it thoughtfully before speaking again. "You're going after Simpson's supplier, aren't you?"  
  
"Give the man a cee-gar," Starsky approved. "Yeah, we got Simpson. Now we want his source."  
  
Connor took a long swallow before asking, "You have any idea how you're going to get him?"  
  
"Not a clue." Hutch smiled benignly over his suds. "Of course that's never stopped us before."  
  
"Uh-oh." "What's the matter. Hug?" Starsk asked innocently.  
  
"I gots a feeling ol' Huggy Bear ain't gonna like whatever it is you two're cooking up."  
  
The jukebox plunked down another record - an old song about either a lost love or a dead horse - the words weren't too clear on that point. Starsky listened to the music a minute. "Nice song." He popped a pretzel into his mouth. "You didn't seem to mind the last plan much. Hug."  
  
Huggy settled back in his chair, a smug smile lifting his full lips, "The last plan, my boy, contained a very productive type of equation. You had one beautiful woman, one Bear and one microphone. This time I don't see no beautiful woman and you ain't about ta see no Bear, neither."  
  
"Relax, Huggy," Hutch soothed him. "Your cover is pretty well blown anyway. You're..." He trailed off, appalled, as Huggy withdrew a chocolate bar from one pocket, unwrapped it and dunked it into his beer. "What are you doing?"  
  
Huggy took a bite of the chocolate and washing it down with a gulp of beer. "I been playing a strung-out type for near three weeks, right?"  
  
Hutch nodded. "What does that...?"  
  
"Which means I been living on liquor and candy bars all that time," Huggy went on unheeding.  
  
"Well, yes, but..."  
  
Huggy dunked another chunk. "Believe it or not, fuzz friend, I kind'a got to like it."  
  
Starsky looked interested. "Really?"  
  
"I've had worse. "  
  
"Lemme try it." Starsky snapped off a piece of Huggy's candy bar and dunked it into his own beer. Trails of chocolate swirled down to the bottom of the glass.  
  
Huggy pshawed with a gesture. "You can't just dunk it, Starsky, ya gotta chase it."  
  
"Oh." The candy disappeared into Starsky's mouth followed by a gulp of beer. He chewed thoughtfully, ignoring the green tinge appearing on Hutch's face. "Not bad. Hug, not bad. Ever try--"  
  
Hutch deliberately tuned them out. There was only so much a partner could be expected to take, after all.  
  
Neil listened rapt in morbid fascination for a bit longer before leaving the conversation. "Ugh. Do they really eat that stuff or is it just talk?"  
  
Hutch grinned. "They really eat it."  
  
Connor shook his head. "They were right."  
  
"Right?"  
  
"People really are weird in L.A."  
  
"Some of them, anyway." Hutch took a hefty swig of his own, mercifully untainted brew before speaking again. "Listen, Neil, I've been thinking."  
  
An argument broke out just then between Starsky and Huggy Bear as to the more "dunkable" brands of chocolate. Neil wrinkled his nose before deliberately turning his back out he duo. "Simpson's supplier again, right?" he asked with patient resignation.  
  
Hutch studied a crack on the dirty table, not raising his eyes as he spoke. "Picture this guy sitting somewhere all fat and safe, probably looking around right now for someone else to distribute for him, knowing we can't touch him. Guy must be laughing himself sick over the 'big' bust we made today."  
  
"You really want him bad, don't you." Flat statement.  
  
Starsky interrupted his discussion the relative merits of soggy sweets to interject, "We both want him bad."  
  
Hutch met the eyes of his partner over the rim of his glass, acknowledging the truth of the sentiment. "Well get him, too."  
  
"I honestly believe you will." Connor stared from man to man, catching the unspoken communication which passed between them. "I'd sure hate to have you two on my tail."  
  
"Keep your nose clean, Chief," Starsky grinned, "and you won't."  
  
"Enough of this po-lice jive." Huggy interrupted his growling stomach adding emphasis to his words. "Are we here to talk or to eat?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm hungry too." Starsky glanced around. "Never a waitress around when you want one."  
  
"Never fear, the Bear is here." Huggy reached into another pocket. "Have another piece of chocolate."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"How long have you had to put up with this?" Neil asked Hutch sympathetically.  
  
The blond rolled his eyes. "Seven years," he groaned. "Seven long years of putting up with his eating habits, his car and his jokes." Hutch gave a long-suffering sigh. "Could've been worse though."  
  
"How?" Connor asked curiously.  
  
Hutch watched his partner again, happy and healthy and whole. "It could have been seven years without him."  
  
Finish 


End file.
